Louise Brealey Instagram – I took an envelope of white sand from Aisir Mor all the way down to the southern sea this morning, to a beach where the sand is black. I held it into my hand, Mama, watching the wild horses race out there. And then I let the wind take it. I am yesterday’s small boy with a matching blister on each foot, throwing his coat up and onto the wind. Great balls of foam are flying off the tide, up the beach. On the hillside the corn, the grasses, are all sea and even the willows twist into waves. It is, impossibly, a year. I held my breath for a year, mum. I am still there sitting on the ugly chairbed I’ve bought for you. You are too poorly to sit in it so it sits instead next to your hospital bed in the living room, in the dying room. I could press the button and lay on it next to you in those few days sometimes in a snatched minute with my head on the pillow by your hair, your tiny bird hand in mine. Dad half slept on it next to you the last night. All these days without you that are gone on a breath.