raining

It was pouring this morning. The kind of rain that looks like it will never stop [but you wonder how it can keep going]. I was warm inside, in my trackies. Unpacking.

At the bottom of a big box, a little envelope full of photos. Captured moments of the last week we spent away together, on holiday [before she got too sick].

There was one we took ourselves, on a boat, facing into the wind. Happy. (Happy. Despite knowing what was to come.) Even then I wondered [and I still do now] how it is possible to feel that way, to feel so alive and full when you know what’s tiptoeing behind.

And another, of her. One that she never knew I took: paddling in the water, light streaming, at peace.

When she died, my sadness was sharp and angry and it burned. This morning, as the rain came down and I sunk to the hard floor, tears streaming, I realised that it has transformed. My pain has cooled, it is softer now, its edges have worn. It nestles quietly among all the other stuff I hold inside.