I’ve been busy for the last couple of weeks, on a bit of a rollercoaster, always something that needed to be done, busy busy busy. Tonight on a whim I decided to walk the five minutes to St Anne’s Well Gardens. It was raining when I left the house and the rain looked likely to get stronger. I tightened my coat around me, struggling with the stuck zip until I was snug.
In the day, particularly in the summer months the park is full of mums and dads talking with each other, their kids free to play around in the dabbled sunlight. I think it’s probably what heaven looks like. Tonight though the park belongs to me and I find a solid giant of a tree and lean back against its trunk, letting the rain fall on my face.
My thoughts slow and stop and the rain washes the cares from my shoulders so I feel lighter. I love the sounds of rain. I listen into the space between the raindrops and I am transported to a place that feels like home.
After a while I start walking again, I’m pretty drenched by now but I’m still warm enough and instead of heading home I head deeper into the storm. I follow my feet, left turn, right turn, right turn, not really taking note of where I’m going and then I’m standing by the peace statue and the wind is suddenly fiercer and the raindrops bigger, and I head out down the promentary and stand above the waves with the West Pier to my left watching the surf breaking, the rain lashing down. I think about my friend Kirk and tell him I love him. I add my tears to the rain and wish he hadn’t had to go and die.
I arrive back home dripping water down the hall. I turn the heating up and start warming up some milk.