My One True North

by Milly Johnson

Every life gone south could be fixed, every compass could be recalibrated to point upwards to a north of hope.

You never get over it. You just find somewhere to put it. A bit like learning how to walk differently in a shoe that rubs your heel when you’ve only got one pair.’

Just because you can’t see an injury, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.’

warm and effusive. At her funeral Nigel had used the word apricity

You get so good at saying you’re fine, trying to make people not feel awkward when they ask if you’re coping that no one realises if you’re struggling. You end up believing your own lies.

‘Normal isn’t anything to aspire to,’ said Alan, with a disapproving click of his tongue. ‘The Stampers think they’re normal. So did the bleeding Borgias.’

if only she could turn the clock back and they’d talked more; it would have changed their history. Words unsaid made bricks for big walls.

two pieces of something drifting around in the orbit of life, chancing together, fitting as if they were whole a long time ago but had been smashed up, separated and together they became repaired. As if they had found each other. As if they were meant to be.

Life is here and now – live it or miss it. And she wasn’t going to miss any more.