What are we here for?

I ask my dog,

who will one day die and break my heart.

Lately, I've been thinking less

about getting hit by a car

and more about heart disease.

He cocks his leg

and pisses up the brick wall,

as if to say -- we're here

because it's 11pm. Every day.

Grief is more than just the finished tapestry --

it's the fibers, the weaving.

The time taken to learn and undertake

such a specialist, heritage craft.

Whatever is happening to me,

I can feel it happening.

We are here to be changed.

At least once a day I become madly convinced

that there is a tumour millimetres away from my heart,

and I am one wrong move from causing a collision.

The dog stops pulling on his lead

and looks back at me

(the way you do when you have to leave

someone you love for a very long time)

and for a moment together, we are very still.