Day 67

Yesterday I talked to my aunt, my sister writer, about the alchemical effect of writing on our lives.

We have noticed that on some days, miles apart, we use the same words, echoing each other, borrowing without realising.

And then mystically, hours after our conversation, we both write about necklaces, hers strung with treasured memory beads, mine with motorway cars.

I feel the thread of my life tugged by hers and think again about the invisible strings that join one thing to another, like a darting kite to the hands of a man.