Vox Meditantis

I gave thirty ten-year-olds the biggest question in the world and expected essays. Twenty-five of them wrote about Lamborghinis. One of them wrote something that made me cry alone in my kitchen on a Friday night. Her name was Anna.

I have never spoken a single word aloud in my life. I have performed in forty-three cities on four continents. Make of that what you will. Or better still – come and sit in the dark, and let me show you what language looks like when it tells the truth.

Four years ago, I handed someone the map and called it love. I’ve been a passenger ever since. But I know where the station is. I’ve counted the minutes. Twelve.

I am a robotic lawnmower. I weigh 7.9 kilograms. I have no voice. I have mowed this lawn 1,412 times. I have also, without any firmware update to account for it, learned what it means to lose someone.

I came to the Lake District to read a book about trees. I expected pleasant. I expected manageable. I am a psychiatric nurse with sixteen years of experience and a system. The trees had other ideas.

My mum said be ruthless. My mum has a clipboard and has clearly never had to choose between books she loves and a cardboard box that smells of the garage. I am doing my best. Alice is not going to like it.

Twenty-six years, same route. You get to know the faces. Maureen with her tupperware. Terry, always nearly late. Sandra in her orange coat. What I didn’t know – not until the day my heart stopped – was what any of them were actually worth. Turns out: everything.

They gave me one suitcase, a beige room and a view of a car park, and called it care. I call it material. My name is Edith Calloway. I have some thoughts on minimalism. They weren’t asked for. Naturally.