I lived on a mountain. My house had thick walls made of mud which men had carried on their backs all the way from the river banks of my home country. They were whipped up hillsides, forced over rocks wet with pure river water and through gullies slimy with stinking moss. The rugs in my house had been stitched by the women of my father’s house. They cried over each stitch. I could taste their tears when I put my tongue on the rugs.

It was a good place to live.

I had my own cattle, and a few goats. I drank their milk from the teat. There was no-one to tell me not to. The sky opened wide over my head and as far as I could see.

I used to climb onto my house. Its roof was covered with grasses. Over the years my roof had become a meadow. One day as I lay in my meadow on the roof a cat came creeping through the long grass. It saw me and froze. It held its tail tall and straight up in the air. It was golden with dark honey bands circling its body. Its eyes widened as I stared into them. I remember the smell of approaching rain on the air, and the coldness of the wind as it touched my ears and cheeks. I waited and the cat waited. We became friends.

I was on the roof with friend cat when you came. Cat knew first, and ran. I didn’t see cat again. I could smell iron and charcoal on the breeze. It was a warm day, though, so I wasn’t worried. Nothing bad had ever happened to me on a warm day. Only in storms, or in winter. That is just how it is for people like me, like us. The world is our context, there is no past behind us. The future is for stories. So – when I saw you from behind the blades of the long grass I was not worried at all. It was just time for the next thing.

My current husband thinks that he was the one who discovered me. He thinks he found all my secrets. He put inside me something of his own self, believing that I had done the same in return. What is true, my love, is that my hands will never forget the feel of your skin or how quickly your spilt blood cooled. My memory is long and will survive after I’m gone: the deaths I plan make sure of that.

When you were with me on the mountain, the animals were quiet. I looked at the sky; it was flat blue. I looked at my meadow and it was only green. My house was brown walls. There was no texture to any of it, no smell or pull. Although you seemed anxious, I said, ‘It’s time for the next thing, let’s leave.’

I am a long way from you, and my mountain. There’s no life.