Sunday Rain

It’s cold and gray this morning. Just like his mind.

He walks out to the kitchen, socks barricading him from the sharp chilled bite of the tiles beneath him. The granite benchtop offers little remorse for the heat it steals from his wrists as he eases them against it, if only for a second, as he pushes himself onto the brown clothed stool.

He sits hunched, as if that will shield him from the chilly air. Outside, it comes down still. The rain falls ceaselessly. It sheens the dams as the thousands of drips on the waters’ surfaces increase their reflections by a thousand percent. The trees are dark with dampness. The grass is a deep wet green speckled carelessly with glistening leaves and shining sticks that have long since fallen from where they began their journey in a branch of a tree. Overhead there is an endless blanket of cloud; a heavy colourless mass that weighs down on and even envelops some of the treetops fogging along the horizon.

His eyes take in it all in a just a lazy glance. His mind doesn’t, however. Its attention is turned inward. Somehow the worries and frustrated thoughts in his head seem more interesting. As if entertaining them will save him from his fears more today than any other day.

Why today? Because it’s Sunday. The day when he hears from nobody. It’s the day after Saturday, where all the excitement usually resides. Today offers nothing but time and the isolation needed for one to reflect upon the week preceding it. It’s a moment of self evaluation where the mistakes are brooded upon until hopefully a golden lesson emerges from the churning chaos of the cerebral cortex. In his eyes, this is not a day. This is only an empty bridge from the past week to the next, with nothing but a vast lake of flat gray water sitting underneath. The relentless splashing of raindrops and puddles outsides only help to complement the hues and tones of the pictures that swirl endlessly in his mind.

Cold and gray. At least for today.


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