Here, in his house, on Father’s Day


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Yes, it will be a rough night, being here in his house, on Father’s Day, on my own, but that’s okay. These tears too will pass. Continue reading

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We are in the dying days of summer.

The sky is grey, the air sticky and my spirits murky. A fine mist, that will soon turn to rain, dampens the city sounds. I hang my arm over the patio rail and feel the moisture’s cooling effects. It is a slow day, with many fires to put out, but I don’t have the energy to do more than keep my arm hanging over the edge.

hand in the rainA summer storm would be preferable to this. Heavy rains with invigorating booms of thunder shortly followed by electric flashes would extinguish the doubt, clean the sun burnt lawns and recharge my soul. A heavenly shower of cold rain falling on summer warmed asphalt, the smell of hot dirt, grease and slowly absorbed motor oil as they combine and puddle, trickling towards the storm drains. This cleansing shower will not fall.

The mist chills the air as my hair coils tightly into a halo of frizz. I watch the thin veil of moisture falling. Invisible over white sky, it is un-cloaked by the dark green row of sad pine-trees that rise between the apartment buildings. The veil briefly thickens to rain before it abruptly disappears.

Sounds of traffic reemerge; a siren in the distance is joined by another, closer, louder and moving past me. Unseen stories unfolding. The day’s pace quickens.

I am left stagnant,
with fires to attend to,
in these dying days of summer.