And the rain just keeps coming

It’s been raining for days.

Not that I’m complaining; not when the tanks are filling up and there are puddles covering the paddock, making the ducks happy. Not when the garden is thriving and the grass has gone a pretty green colour, as the raindrops sparkle in the light. Not when the sky is darkly dramatic and interesting to watch.

Still, it has been raining for days and being a country girl, it feels like it should be an auspicious start to May and the middle of Autumn, the season of hot soups and hot water bottle nights.

The trees have dropped their leaves and stand bare naked, inhabited by crows in the early morning light as we drive Amy to school. Birds nests stand out in stark relief against the sky as I wonder about stopping and photographing them, before the rain falls down ever harder and I huddle inside my jacket in the slightly steamy warmth of the car.

And it continues to rain.

I dream of my grandmother nearly every night and wake up with a headache and scratchy eyes, damp patches on my pillow. I watch her die, again and again, before dreaming that she is alive and all is well again.

I replay old scenarios in my head, the post death fallout that I was subjected to and wonder that it has the power to hurt me all over again.

Anne Lamott tweets:

If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.

And I hold onto that when I contemplate writing essays about things that hurt, in an attempt to lance the wounds that fester. Yes, I’m angry with you. I’m still angry with you – all of you.

In the middle of all of this, the fetus continues to grow, while I wait for the end of winter. Her birth will herald the coming of my spring and I cannot wait.

In the meantime, it continues to rain.