Textling #7

The other day I sat in the garden and got drenched. I’d woken to the heavy beat of rain, a sound both ominous and reassuring, and checked my limbs for relative coherence. Not quite 6 am when I shlepped outside: that time before dark cedes to light and you know of colours before they emerge. Sky, ground and foliage in grey hues, all from the same palette. A few windows in the neighbourhood lit up, dull yellow cut-outs. I pulled the chair away from the wall I normally lean against and sat, eyes closed, shivering in the morning chill. Salvos of fat drops on hands, face, shoulders, the rest of me, drumming sensations directly on skin, through cotton tee, flannel pj’s. Different degrees of cold. Feet warm in running (!) shoes. The metal staircase rising behind me – drops swelling and falling at slower, irregular intervals; from further off the hum of car engines and the occasional aeroplane.

For as long as I could I stayed in place, suddenly new, then back to bed. The elements moved out of reach for the rest of the day. Had something to remember though.


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