August 1974

Oh, lambsie, I don’t know. I keep telling myself: Write the important things, there’s not time to tell it all. And I’m feeling it more and more, that I am running out of time, running low on whatever it is that is keeping me going. But they are bound together, the everything and the nothing, and disentangling them often seems beyond what I can do.

Today your Unty Jessie came for a cup of tea and brought me some pink roses from her garden. As I sit here now, looking at them, the memory that comes into my head is not an important thing, no, but it is clear and bright before my eyes, and I want to catch it before it floats away, write it just as I see it there.

Ach, lambsie, you’re probably getting used to me writing more, or less, than I promised.