She wears herself out, telling me to get the car ready. But she can’t remember where the dam is. ‘You go out,’ she says, eating invisible morsels with her fingers. She didn’t think a man could do it.
She’s a tough old bird; a farmer, a mother. She worries about her son going to war. ‘Teach her,’ she says. ‘I’ll move.’ She kicks her feet and rocks back and forth. She knows no one can do what she does.
She doesn’t know what to do, she tells me over and over. She is lost somewhere between here and North Yorkshire, between 1932 and now. ‘Where are you?’ I tap her on the arm and reply, ‘I am right here with you.’
Another day. Someone I am privileged to know.