Sometimes I think that the reason I eat porridge in the mornings, even when it’s hot, is because it cements the grief back down in the pit of my stomach where it belongs, and not up banging around in my face.

I’m old enough to know now that squashing things down is unhealthy, and that things need to be let out. I’m old enough to remember the understanding that after I’ve cried I feel better.

The grief isn’t close enough to my eyes to come though, not today, nor is it buried deep enough to forget. It’s stuck there in the back of my throat, unable to find its way either up or down.

I read an email just now from a friend that I miss and it made me cry. Up, and down.  Now I shall eat porridge.