What's Terrorism?

Charmouth, Dorset, on Sunday  - the beach -  and the black cliffs - slipping into the sea in slow grey rivers of mud.

This poem by Samantha Reynolds makes me sad for myself....makes me

 wonder why I write.

Why I write I don’t write to remember that when we drive past the electrical tower you say look, it’s the Eiffel Tower I write to leave crumbs so I can find my way back if I need to at the end for a moment to inhale that time when my life was big and new. WHY I WRITE Tonight, watching the 10'clock news, my husband asks me, What's terrorism, please? Trying to explain it is like that game where you  have to describe an object to your team but aren't allowed to use any of the useful, obvious words to help you. Because my husband doesn't know them any more. I write so that I can look back over my shoulder into that slow time of the slippage into the ocean. All the pebbles of his mind drowning. So that I can remember it wasn't as bad as it is now. As if there were degrees of terror......