The rain fell heavy in the morning,
and she went out early to buy lunch and dinner.
She spoke of courses, of skills to be learned,
of money that must be saved,
of how I must think of them before myself.
Her foot brushed mine by accident,
yet when I spoke of it, she said,
“Don’t anyhow say.”
Her voice sharp, her hands busy,
always carrying too much.
A message arrived—
a friend posting photos of us online,
asking if I liked them,
calling me “dear friend.”
I said yes,
and quietly changed my phone to a fairy theme.
He replied simply, “Oh, I see.”
A small warmth in the middle of the noise.
Later, we went to the shop.
We waited until he came,
pushing his daughter in a pram.
He checked my phone,
assured me it was fine,
reminded me to let it rest,
to restart once in a while.
After glass replaced yet again,
we nearly took the wrong bus.
Her voice rose, sharp in the air.
An old man let us into the lift first,
asking gently for our floor.
We reached home,
the day still heavy with rain.
At lunch, the words grew sharper.
“There is no more Milo,
I drank the last one,” she said,
and then the accusations followed—
that I did not help,
that I was selfish.
Even relatives were not spared.
I said she scolded me.
She said it was just talking.
The phone rang with news:
he is in the hospital still,
rashes unhealed,
a skin doctor tomorrow.
She will go and visit.
The weight of illness lingered between us.
I registered for a walk in September,
a small promise to myself
to keep moving.
And I saw a shirt I liked—
a voice I listen to,
a melody I admire—
but the price was high,
so I let it pass,
choosing restraint instead of desire.
And so the day unfolded—
with rain and reprimands,
with small kindnesses and sharp words,
with a quiet note of friendship,
and a promise of tomorrow’s walk.
“Even in the rain, I learn to carry both sharp words and soft kindness.
I walk between what I cannot change and the small choices I can—
to pause, to restart, to save, to let go.
Tomorrow will bring its own light.” π✨
