There is a door;
The lock has broken.
Off you go,
Yes, that way…
She immediately stepped into the wardrobe and got in among the coats and rubbed her face against them, leaving the door open, of course, because she knew that it is very foolish to shut oneself into any wardrobe.
Soon she went further in and found that there was a second row of coats hanging up behind the first one.
Off, to wherever you want.
Magical transportation that cuts-out the social-care assessment as middle-man and destroyer of hope, that fast-tracks you to home, or even, manipulating the magic of time and space, back to that happy July in the garden with mum, baggy shorts and old Celtic top, spinning though the moments of tot squeezing into the living-room chair, snuggling; kitchen table Friday night smells and creaking floorboards.
Back, back, to the farm, the milk round, back, to the days before the evacuation or the sirens, back to the place of comfort where mum and dad and baby are safely waiting.
Here it is, the bus to Upton.
Stuttering stop-start moments that are the present; your son, husband? Children, gathered round, concerned, smiling, vulnerable; the uncertainty between independence and locked away somewhere, with fifty other old men and women for the final days.
And, back with nurse, holding my hand as we negotiate the corridor, the dayroom, flower-bed, sensory garden.
Is it any wonder your frustration is occasionally perceived as anger and my compassion as hurt?