All afternoon the neighbours kid yell and fight in the swimming pool. They laugh and argue in equal measure, the balance always ready to change and forget to return to neutral. I try to ignore them but it is difficult to do with all our windows open.
I understand their frustration. Their house is small, the same size as ours but instead of two people living in it, there are four of them and a baby.
I watch them in their pool, the younger boy complaining about his brother. They remind me of my brother and me at their age. I sympathise with my mother. I understand why she used to walk the dog often at week-ends.
I sit back at my computer, my brain a confused jumble of thoughts. I have worked most of the day on photographic submissions to various online zines. I open my document collecting my diary entry. I have not yet written about Friday, or yesterday. It is the first time I have let more than one day slip by.
I try to write but all I hear are the screams of the boy, arguing again. I grab a camera, put a roll of film in it and walk out of the house. I follow the usual route, the moon catching my gaze in the blue sky. I snap a photo of it, white against blue against green.
The parks are busy with gatherings of friends and family. I think of what my partner told me about the R number in the South West and how it has risen of late. Is it still safe where we are? Will it ever be safe? My chest tightens and I want to curl up in a ball and cry. I walk on. A cat meows at me. I grab a stick and for a while we play, distance and safety maintained between us. I leave as the cat tires of the game, lying on the grass and ignoring me. I let it be and go on.
I am nearly home now as I write these words, my thumbs typing to the rhythm of my feet. I am tired. I am sad. I am yearning. I am hanging. Just about.