It rained all day. I woke to the lash of it, the slam against my bedroom window, the leaks. I paddled downstairs, almost enjoying the wet beneath my feet. It felt thrilling. The wind was up, no idea of its identity as I never did. I needed my husband to understand such frillary and he is very gone. Just wind, then, slamming rain like an old woman with no teeth and a mouthful of spit and way too much freeway. She woke me, a lot. I slept once I recognised her and refused to engage. She’ll lose breath soon enough. Always does. However, this rain, this old woman/ spit thing does seem to bring Ground Control into a standstill. There must be something about the way she moves which brings in a certain turbulence. I confess that a part of me is wondering at my words because every single year this particular windolence moves in and does just what we are experiencing right now, we at ‘Ground Control’, it seems, are astonished all over again. It thinks me.

Delusional thinking appears to be well ingrained. I can see the need for a link to Ground Control, the voice of definicity, the assuredness that, even now, we can shape our world. And that thinks me again. Why not, indeed? I have in my time washed the diorama off the jeans and tees and sweatshirts belonging to the uprising of my babies as they touched 6 foot and beyond. Were they not about to reshape at least a part of the world? And, in my own time, did I reshape too?

My text said, confidently, that my delivery of whatever will be delivered today. It has rained all day long. The roads are or could be flooded, the posties drenched. Add to that the ferry, the big one, which didn’t run today because of something or other. Endless hiccups, endless problems and endless angst. Island Life. It is smurry out there, can’t see the hills, only rain. It’s beautiful, though, like a painting.