The Rain

It’s 1am. The fire is roaring, flames devouring the sturdy wood. The crackle and spit of each angry mouthful almost matches the rain. You pick up your keys and take the first step.

Opening the car door, you reach to the back seat and pick out a jacket. You’re not driving today. Doors locked, zip fastened; you trudge. You’ve got a hood, and an umbrella somewhere, but it doesn’t seem to matter. You can see the rain pouring around you in the ever decreasing street lamps, but it’s almost as if you’re immune to it. Looking across the blackened park there are so many memories. So many people. Close friends, past lovers. Feelings that you’d almost forgotten about brought pouring back at the simplest sight or sound. You can’t help but wonder if in a few years time you’ll be back here again, reliving memories that are yet to exist. There’s more isn’t there?

The rain is getting heavier now and the leaves chunter at the assault.

As you round the corner a fox runs down the centre of the road, startled, before darting into a hedge. It’s the only other life that you can sense save for the semi-muted radio escaping from the bakery, as someone prepares for the morning’s deliveries. It soon merges into the sound of the continuing barrage.

A tip of the hat from the traffic lights as they sense you approaching and give you a momentary go ahead. It’s the encouragement you need as a single drop breaks the brow barricade and prompts 20 swift lashes.

The rain must be at its peak now. You can see it splashing high from the impact on the tarmac, only to fall again, rippling constantly in the pools around your feet. You stride on, not even thinking about a destination. A chilling wind sends a shiver down your spine. You’re in a car park. Usually such a bustling epicentre, it’s empty and bleak. It pushes you on.

Approaching a van, you’re quite sure that you hear footsteps. A more thorough scan of the street still proves fruitless, but there they are again, unmistakable - a man, judging by the length of the stride. Either the rain is responsible for poor visibility, or for playing tricks on the mind. The town clock strikes �" half past. It’s been long enough and inevitably your shoes have been breached, your bare feet now surrounded.

You approach the house. Lights. Voices. Entering, warmth embraces you, immediate relief from the skirmish. The sound is coming from the tv, neglected in a hasty departure. The fire has all but starved, but the embers are still red hot and it relights easily.
You’ve come full circle again.
You’re home, aren’t you?