Rainbreak

The rain drummed on the concrete pavement as I stood beneath an old oak tree, its leaves doing little to shield me from the downpour. My jumper clung to my skin with a strange, sticky heat, like the weather couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a hot or a cold day. My hair was clumped together around my shoulders, my face stained with tears I thought I had left behind. A recurring reminder of the anguish that constantly hung over my head, the weight of the world, left for me to bare alone.

Ten years. It’d really been ten years, yet somehow no time had passed at all. I could hear playful yelling as children were reluctantly ushered off the playground while their parents shielded themselves with their jackets, the scraping of shoes on tanbark as they scrambled to the car. Small animals skittered amongst the undergrowth, evading the water’s touch. I could hear myself sniffling, but it didn’t sound like it was coming from me. It echoed through my own ears, like the voice of a ghost, the voice of someone intrinsically entwined with the rain that it could have been coming from the clouds above.

I wondered what it could have become. What we could have been. What I’d missed out on, and what I’d never get back. The promises we’d made and the life we never got to live. I’d planned in all out in my head: two kids, because he wanted one and I wanted three. A large house with a white-picked fence and a brick path leading up to the door, planted beside the high school we’d both attended, so out kids could go there too. A golden labrador named Scout for a boy, and Rosie for a girl. Weekend barbeques where smoke trailed high up into the vast, blue sky and the smell of sausages and the sizzle of hamburger patties flipping on the grill trailed all the way down the street. I’d shared it with him, late nights under the stars getting eaten alive by mosquitoes while one of our parents watched warily from their bedroom windows. And he’d laughed, a magnificent, majestic sound that I wanted to catch like it was a butterfly and pin to a wall, to be cherished forever.

But it was gone too quickly. The promises he had never fulfilled from beyond the grave. Ten years on, and we’d promised if anything ever happened, we’d return to the park where we met, exactly after a decade. The park where the rain was so heavy and unrelenting we hid under the small, red slide, chatting and laughing the sky cleared, so quickly, like a snap of the fingers in my mind. The park where we’d exchanged promise rings to a future together, a future that was cut viciously in half, painfully pulled apart, one hospital trip at a time.

I stood in the rain, alone. He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to meet me like he always did. Tear slid down my cheeks, carving a river on my face. It wasn’t fair. He was supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to go so soon. ‘I’ll be back,’ he always assured me when we parted ways. ‘I’ll be back with even more love for you.’ Until one day, he wasn’t. Until one day, not even all the love in the world could save him as his body slowly paled on the hospital bed, his lips chapped and blue, his hair course and fine. But I’d take him like that. I’d have cherished his fallen locks like they were flakes of gold if I knew he could have never grown more.

I sniffed, blinking salty tears out of my eyes. The rain was clearing. The sun peeked through the light, fluffy clouds as if it knew what had happened. What had happened under its watchful eye. I smiled a watery smile. A butterfly drifted down, its delicate wings navigating through the array of drops that still fell. Nothing to me, but they could be life-threatening to the butterfly, I realised. It got hit, and it plummeted to the floor, the weight gluing one of its magnificent blue wings to the hard concrete. It fluttered, trying to free itself from its prison. I knelt down and gently lifted it with my hand, encouraging it back up into the air. It perched on my hand for a moment, as if telling me, thank you. The butterfly gingerly tested its wings before launching back into the air, the intricately carved patterns on its back glowing in the gentle sunlight.

Ten years on. Ten years of late-night secrets and runs to the beach until our feet ached and out backs blistered with painful sunburns, our skin dry and flaky and eyes bloodshot from the salt water. Ten years of fights resolved through tears and make-up dinners that had the two of us awkwardly picking at our food, making small talk as if we had never known each other before. Ten years of bowls of revoltingly bitter homemade ice-cream in front of the T.V, grinning as if we both knew it was terrible but enjoyed the closeness of the shared experience. Ten years of succeeding. Ten years of failing. Ten years of crying on his shoulder until my tears stained his new hoodie. Ten years I’d never get back.

But I didn’t want them back, I realised, holding back a choking, bittersweet sob. Ten years granted to new experiences, memories imprinted in my mind that I’d never forget, ten years of love. I watched the butterfly flitting off into the distance. Off to find a flower worthy enough to match its beauty. My heart lightened. I wiped my wet cheeks, half-embarrassed, half-relieved. Somehow, I’d hyped the moment up more and more in my head. Ten years, something spectacular would happen. A sign, him saying, I went to our spot too. But he was gone. It was all gone. He’d never return but the memories would stick in my mind forever.

The road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but this time I felt ready to walk it.