I pick it up and hold it against my face. A tabby kitten is sleeping on the quilt in a small patch of sun; its delicately patterned sides rise and fall minutely. Through the window there are two dug vegetable patches and brown hens are pecking the ground in a chicken-wire enclosure. As I look, the sun vanishes. A gray cloud has pulled itself across the sky and the edge hiding the sun is thickly outlined with glowing orange. The blanket feels very soft. As I stand there for a moment, the peace in this room is so palpable that I want to lie on the bed next to the kitten and close my eyes. I haven’t sensed peace like this for as long as I can remember. Way back last year maybe, one Saturday in Bristol. Probably the last time Ted and I were together and happy. BRISTOL, 2009 FIVE DAYS BEFORE Saturday felt like a holiday. Ted was home. I phoned the hospital in the morning. Jade was stable following her first episode of chemotherapy. I said I would visit after the weekend.
