My aunt in her nineties was usually buoyant, but a darkness grips her. Perhaps it is her failing eyesight at a time when reading gave her most pleasure. Perhaps I have not given her the time she needed these past few days. She will not say. I too grow sad. Feeling is infectious.

I stay a while and talk. She listens, at first without much attention, then slowly, as my chuckle about my utter failure to resolve my latest creative challenge turns to self-mocking laughter, she smiles.

I am sometimes overwhelmed by the complexity and feeling of what to say and how. I fail to find the words that show my inner world, my joy, my pain, my love. I wish with all my heart it was not so.

Here, I take my time, I search for what is meant between myself and others. Here, in what I make, you come to know me. Here I show myself as best I can, I share those deepest things. You will find my most in my words, my art, my music, whether a stranger, or someone I care for and love.

No matter what I say you will doubt me. Even those I most love doubt me in some way. Doubt protects us from harm. It is the castle keep to our innermost secrets, the last defence from trust.

With words I can leave something of myself to pore over. Something to consider far away from me.

The weakness of my words is that they only have the strength those hearing or reading bring to them.

The most eloquent, beautiful, moving words are not enough to trust, for trust requires love.