I shall ride a bus today.
Nothing remarkable in that. I’ve done it every day for the last twelve years. Along Woburn Place, through Bloomsbury towards Holborn.
Today I shall get off the bus before my stop and carry my survivor guilt into the tree-lined gardens of Russell Square, where the ornate fountain spurts life’s water over the same ground on which people collapsed ten years ago, weighted with inconsolable grief and desperate for news.
I shall bask in the agonising beauty of the flower beds where spring has died and summer now blooms. Where purple foxgloves boast their vibrancy, and scarlet poppies bob in the breeze. I’ll visit the young oak tree, planted on the spot where mourners gathered to place floral tributes, and will pore over each word on the memorial plaque.
Today petals will fall in the Whispering Gallery of St Paul’s Cathedral to commemorate the fifty two lives and all those affected.
Each life, as delicate as a feather, which the wind carried into the path of evil.
Vicky Newham © 2015