From the window the sky is streaked with leaden amalgam of water and dust, the still air now replaced with gusts that push the trees into contortions, an unwilling ballerina each of them driven into new positions, no time for a warm up. Look across and realise that my umbrella is in my car and the rain on the horizon is slowly blotting out the landscape, drawing nearer like a rain-curtain muting this world. Soon each raindrop will fall in its’ rightful place, and I will get wet walking back today. The workmen on the site below move like ants, shoring up piles of sand, unloading truck beds, their shouts and exhortations carry like the cry of gulls in the harbour, or my sudden memory of the man in ICU who saw his son dying and ran frantically, forgetting the buzzer in his haste, his pleas for help sounded similar as he raced down the hall.
I went to ring the emergency buzzer at the son’s bedside, trying to help, scared to be interfering, be casting myself in his story, felt the absence of this young man, his soul, where was it now? Understood the measured brisk walk of the nurse a little better, a woman who knew she could not drag the boy into the vessel he had left, any more than my frantic run in the rain will stop the rain soaking into my shoes and shirt; no more than the flimsy curtain drawn around the bed stopped the wails of anguish and grief from stirring our hearts ,as a father tried to fight the storm, and lost.