A little island, under a tiny shelf, protected from the rain which falls all around. Good food and clear, crisp wine warm my too large belly. Droplets making teeny tiny splashes while we sit here, warm and dry. It isn’t cold, in fact the air is warm and soft, like a newborn’s breath. The rain falls, but not on us. The lights are yellow, spilling round spheres of softness over what would normally be cold and stark. Amazing how a city can be more inviting at night. Cloaked in half truths and mystery. Not the cold stark grey concrete of day. A pair of bicycles wait patiently in the rain, waiting for the people who will call them to life the next day. Awaiting their reason for being. But for now all is dark. All is wet. All is soft in the yellow light of the lamps. And my tears fall for the lost ones. The ones who travel with us still, always at our sides. The ones who watch over us (we hope) and witness us as we live. And love. And fail. And as we walk home to our waiting beds. The ones who are no longer here. And yet are always by our side.
(written in memory of my mother, Mary Dale)