Grass must grow after a storm

Once again, you are bridging the distance between us, as we speak.

Others seem surprised at the summer storm today. Only yesterday they were sunbathing at the beach, bodies strewn in the sun and sweating tanning oil and salt.

Today there is hail and rain and a great black cloud covering the island. Why?

Because you are coming. Because there is no black without white, because there is no joy in one's heart without pouring rain on one's face.

Because this year I have been thrown violently from one extreme to another like a slingshot or a pinball.

Because there is no relief without guilt.

I don't even get up from my chair to follow the others outside. Sitting at my desk I open the window next to me and breathe in the wet earth. Deeply. I wonder if the wreaths at my mother's grave have wilted, I wonder if it's raining on the mountains, if grass will grow at the mound of dirt covering her body, if the breeding birds have found shelter in the thick branches of the pine tree growing at her feet.

I stare at the black sky and I imagine you in a plane somewhere over continental Europe flying towards the big dark cloud. You are sitting strapped to your seat watching some silly movie or playing with one of your i-devices or thinking about me waiting for you. I imagine your broad goofy smile and like the Cheshire cat it's all thats left in my mind as you approach my little sad and lonely island, thrown in the middle of the sea and hit by stormy waves and crashed down upon by heavy clouds. Your bright smile comes up closer to the stormy black cloud, your teeth flash their white brilliance at this ungodly dark mass swelling up with evaporated tears and hailstone heartbreaks.  It is an unsightly battle and I try not to agonise over its outcome. I remind myself that I cannot control the forces of nature, and that I cannot reckon with them at this moment. But perhaps you can.

I feel the thunder roll, it vibrates my body cells and sends me shivering back to the present moment. I need to finish this work before I head for the airport.


  1. Re, your writing is so colourful, I can smell the summer rain and feel the thrill of the cloud so low. If this 'diary' is not an art piece, I don't know what is ;)


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