We sat on the plastic chairs in the space where the Social Club used to be, just to the right of the fire door and we sat in the smell of new lino and watched the people come and go.

We watched the eyes, blinking above masks, behind blue screens and tables. We sat and waited for our timers to go off, to release us from the place where the toddlers used to play. We looked out to where they trundled on tricycles, scuffed their feet along the floor. To where they squealed and giggled. And there, just metres from where we sat, through a shimmering which no one else could see, I saw myself.

I saw our toddler charging up towards us, fresh from Santa’s side, cheap gift wrapped in the thinnest of paper and he beamed. He grinned under plastic antlers, with cheeks, pink from the heat of fake fur. And our three year old chattered, dressed from the Nativity, unbounded in his world.

And as we stood by the Community Centre notice board, I saw through a shimmering which no one else could see, and I saw my older self with our grown-up son. We sat on plastic chairs in the place where the Social Club used to be. Wishing for new antibodies and waiting to creep back out into our world.

And as we left I reached out through a shimmering, which no one else could see, I walked past my younger self and squeezed her arm.