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Summer and Rain

To the downpour 


When it rains in April, it comes down hard and fast

and fills everything up like there has never been rain

before. Like it doesn’t know the land and is eager to

meet it. Or maybe like it does and it missed it. And then

when it is gone. It is gone so completely you wonder

if you imagined it. Bright blue skies and warm sun and

green tendrils swinging in the breeze. If it were not for

the pothole puddles, it could almost convince you. It

could almost lie. And get away with it.

If you read my previous post about my beginning of the year, you may have picked up on my frustrations of the ebbs and flows of my mental health. It can feel so fracturing when your brain is not at one hundred percent. I find myself questioning every facet of myself and my emotions as I try to decipher who I am in the mix of all the confusion. And then when I slowly come back to myself, it can be like watching the world in reverse. Like watching a rug unstitch and fall apart. All the tangled threads falling gently to the earth, ready for use. “Who was that?” I wonder quietly to myself, as I read back my words. For too long, I think, I have distanced myself from myself. Quartered and sectioned myself, trying to cut away the undesirable and messy parts. But she’s me. Sadness is me. Joy is me as well. I say it again for myself. Joy is me as well.


When all you can do is remember, then remember hard. 

We anticipated rain, but it stayed away until right at the end. The gloomy skies added to our sombre occasion as we gathered in her memory. We sat and listened to her life story. As told by people who knew her and loved her. And even though she had been away for so long. And even though we could only gather around flowers and an old photograph. I understood that a legacy can be a memory. And that our fingerprints can be found in dusty thoughts. Here today, here tomorrow, here after we are gone. Real in how long they last. And how far reaching. Across towns and countries and continents. This is a philosophy my mother tries to live by, and now I do to. “If you are going to leave a memory, leave a good one.” And Aunty left lots of good ones. Heads bowed, shielding ourselves from the tentative rain with scarves and papers, we dispersed. Back to work. Back to home. Back. But carrying her fingerprints.


Gentle hands

dedicate their time 

to unprying the tightness.

Turning me to upward open palms

receiving receiving receiving

and saying yes

I found myself laughing in my kitchen. At myself. With music playing. And sun shining. And ideas brimming. I couldn’t say when it happened. Except in the moment, I felt there was no fog. Perhaps it had not been around for a while. And my brain was working. And I decided to pause the moment. And take in all the joy that was feeding my contentment. Like a little drizzle turning to a downpour. And I allowed myself to feel proud of myself. I say it again for myself. Joy is me as well.

Joy is me as well.

Friend, see you in September.

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