Went to the woods again today.

When I arrived at the green place, the voices were clearer than they'd ever been. I'm not sure the words are English, but I'm beginning to understand. I fell asleep, in the grass, to the sound of the singing, the sun warming me.

I saw them. The owners of the voices, dancing on the edge of the clearing. They're taller than I thought they'd be, dressed in such colours.

I told them I would come back, and I would stay.

There's nothing for me in the world now, except pills and hopelessness. And Celia. 

Very upsetting news today, at least, according to Celia. The clock doctor confirmed my diagnosis.

So now there are pills, three types, none of which I will take. I tried this evening, for Celia's sake. The pills dull the music.

Of course there is something wrong with me! I know that very well! I don't belong here any more. It's obvious. I don't fit, and haven't for some time, not in the world of grocery stores and appointments and seniors fitness classes.

Celia frets. She needn't worry. When I'm in that bright green place, I'm fine. It's where I belong. 

Under the trees in summer, it's all shadows. This time of year, there's bright sunlight, and mud, and buds just beginning to unfurl, from the finger bones of bare branches.

It's beautiful.

The green place, miraculous with grass and leaves, has burst out with flowers, white snowdrops and purple fairy slippers. The air is filled with the scent of warm earth.

I stayed there all night last night, listening to the singers. I can almost make out the words now.

Celia is wrong to be afraid, but I can't tell her that. She still wants to live in the world. 

Talked with Celia all morning.

She told me she hears the music too! Can you believe it?

She hears it wherever she goes. Always. She doesn't like it, though.

She showed me a raised bump on her ankle. It looks like a tiny hand print. She knows about that clearing, too. She turned pale when I mentioned it.

I'm trying to write down everything she said, but I'm forgetting the details faster than I can type. That is strange, isn't it? The kind of thing that doctors who want you to draw clocks would agree is a cause for concern.  

Sometimes I think Celia really does need to see a doctor. She is always tense and shaking, these days, always ready to burst into tears.

She noticed my new shoes right away. Her eyes went straight to the window. I knew what she was thinking. Yes, Celia, I found your horseshoe and broken file. And your scissors too.

She said something very strange. "You really don't remember." She said it more than once.

Then she stayed for the afternoon and the whole evening. I had to miss my walk. I wasn't upset, though. I can still hear that delicious music!

Replacing the shoes wasn't an issue. I had a brand new pair in my hall closet. An experienced hiker knows she needs fresh shoes every six months.

The weather today! Balmy and windy, with white clouds whirling across the sky. I found the little clearing with no trouble. I settled on my back on the warm, dry ground, and watched the sky.

The music was louder. Did I hear singing? I thought I did. It followed me home, all the way.

The sun must have dazzled my eyes. Little coloured lights are still dancing at the corners of my vision.

Quite sneaky, my Celia is. Clever.

I found what she buried. The little holes she made were obvious, badly covered, one in each corner of my property.

Here's what I dug up: a pair of rusted scissors. A broken file, the kind you use to sharpen a knife. A horseshoe! And the other half of the file.

Where in the world would Celia have gotten a horseshoe?

I took it all away, and threw it out in the neighbour's garbage.

On a whim, I checked my hiking shoes. Full of iron filings, poured under the insoles! Can you believe it?