“It looks like rain.”
You say when we pass, walking our dogs.
Or you might say:
“We’re lucky today. The sun’s out.”
“Nights are drawing in.”
I nod, a token response. A social nicety to oil the wheels and smooth our tracks in shared mud. I don’t glance back to see if you watch me traipse along the path.
One day, though, when it pours, you aren’t there. The sky empties, splashing down my oilskin in torrents, and I miss our routine. Then, another day comes and goes without your familiar voice.
Days become weeks and months, and you don’t blow in with the wind.
Where are you?
Now, when it thunders or the seasons change, I hear the memory of you.
Copyright © 2019 Bridget Webber. All rights reserved