The orchid in flower, neglected just enough. (Hold tight to this mystery.) My cardigan is grey, plain envelope, a containment. Goodbyes still rend me: unwelcome art, unacquired skill. As a child I clung at bedtime, wanting someone beside me. For years, I wrote ‘each other’ as one word. Change is constant and partings inevitable, wrenching and severing part of our travels. But I weep at their leavings, these astonishing creatures, huge, sprung from my body. The thought of it undoes me, grey and unravelling like my sweater. -Tanya Fenkell