It rains when my partner picks me up from work. Drops of water cascades down the windscreen, chased away by tireless wipers.
'Can you drop me at the park?'
'You sure,' my partner questions puzzled.
'Yeah.'
I turn my attention to the world outside of the window, shapes blurred by water, colours merging into one another. A rainbow spans the sky from east to west. I suspect most folks in their cars have not noticed it on this road that runs parallel to it.
I didn't cycle to work today, the offer of a lift difficult to resist the night before when I was struggling with hormones, sadness, and pain. I was grateful for the extra sleep in the morning but now I wish I was out in the rain, my face drenched by the heavy drops falling from the sky. It would cleanse the headache created by the fluorescent light, too high temperature, and relentless thrum of the overheating server room.
'To the park,' I repeat quietly as we near the first major roundabout where the wrong exist would divert us from the park.
'Sure.'
By the time my partner stops the car by the expanse of grass and trees, the rain has petered out. The grey clouds have burst and dispersed to reveal puffy white clouds blotted throughout the blue of the sky. The sun plays hide and seek with them, the world liquid gold under its low setting light.
I step out and stand looking at upwards for a moment. The touch of the air, cold and natural awakens my sluggish mind. The pressing ache around the edges of my skull ebbs away. The rain is truly gone. Clouds travel fast, the wind seemingly confined to their altitude.
I follow the gravel footpath that lines the edges of the park. Large grey-brown puddles blend the path with the grass. I side step the puddles, treading carefully on the muddy boundary of the path. I lean into a bank of thuja tree and nearly lose my balance. My eyes slam shut as memories of childhood flow through me. My childhood home was lined with thuja, the sweet floral pine like scent a sign of having reached home after a day at school. I inhale deeper, seeking the freshness of pines. I know I won't find it there but somewhere in the depth of their fragrance, there is a hint of mint and eucalyptus that rocks me back to the Jura mountains and my grand father's workshop.
I open my eyes and steady my feet on the ground past a puddle. The bank of thuja has been replaced by a solid unscented brick wall. I glance back at the trees and nod a silent thanks to them.
The path ahead is more liquid than solid. I hesitate. I can continue on my way and navigate my way through light footed and nimble, my attention solely focused on my feet and the ground beneath. Or I can step on the grass and continue to feel the world. I step on the grass.
In the main grassy expanse, a flock of gulls tread in the mud, their heads bent down, their eyes focused on the slightest movement in the normally still soil. None of them pitter patter their feet. The rain has done its job. They are here to reap their reward.
I stop and watch them walk in unison across the turf, a dance choreography only they understand. I keep to the fringes of the grass to let them be. I see the gulls raise their head and fly a small distance away, fast returning to their intent gazing of the mud. In the opposite direction of their flight, a golden retriever, tail wagging, is rising on the wooden castle mound. They do not seem to care about the gulls, their head constantly seeking their human. Soon they too crest the rise, ball thrower in hand. The round yellow tennis ball flies in the air. The dog runs. The gulls fly to a further corner of the park. The ball squelches an indentation into the sludge of the field. The sandy coat of the dog turns to silt.
A glint of colour catches my eyes in the sky. A morsel of rainbow floats between islands of translucent clouds. In the other direction, the sun hides behind a cloud and paints its contour silvery bronze. I avert my eyes quickly, the strength of the light too violent for my human eyes.
I return to my slushing walk, each step releasing a nascent wave at the sole of my shoes. I find my attention drifting from the vastness around to the narrow point of my feet. Patches of mud have expanded in the grass where myriad of people and animals tread every day. The surface soon reverts to hard tarmac, the solid unyielding contact odd after the bouncy tactile feedback of earth. I have neared the end of the park.
I slide between the gates barring entrance to cars and enter the labyrinth of swirling dead-ends that form my neighbourhood. Paths have been carved for pedestrians between unbreachable brick and wooden fences, but few are indicated, their existence found by chance or tutelage.
An intersection of hedge, roof, and sky catches my eyes as it always does and I pause to create an image. I briefly wonder how many times I have repeated this exact gesture in this exact spot. The thought glides away easily as my foot carry me away.
The home of the black and white cat I have yet to befriend is up for sale. The white roses by the tall red signs are not yet in bloom but I hold within me the memory of their touch upon my skin and nose. They will be back soon.
The cat is huddled by the kitchen window, their human rinsing dishes behind them. I wave my furry friend goodbye. They watch me move across the street, their face indifferent to my passage.
Next door, the splatter of mud and building materials has shrunk since I last walked to the park. I try to remember what the house looked like before the works started but I fail to recall what is new and what isn't. At this point, the works have been ongoing for nearly three years. I wonder if their front garden will ever return to grass and daisies instead of gyrating flurry of rubbish.
I navigate my way through another alleyway to exit by one of the main road severing my neighbourhood in a long straight line. I press the pedestrian button crossing and resent it immediately. I have come to know that it only turns green when there are no cars around and at this busy time of day it means I will I have to remain standing in the raucous flow of vehicles and exhaust fumes. I press the button repeatedly to stop it timing out as it sometimes does. A pigeon flies overhead, their wings beat the song of the wind. I trace their flight for as long as I can. The crossing light hurriedly flashes green at me, frantic beeping urging me to walk faster so motor vehicles can return to their blinding speed.
I approach a badly designed corner, visibility none and non motorised traffic busy. My ears automatically perk up, seeking the sound of footsteps or bicycle wheels, but this evening I am alone. I turn knowing I am safe and follow the twisting road out of the dead end and into the main artery of the street. I know this place well. It is my street where roses grow at the side of house number 54, where the Bristol Water van advertising Peter the Meter parks by the wall of house number 24, and where a lady invariably sits with a glass of red wine in a black leather chair looking out of a window at house number 135. A few weeks ago, oranges crocuses bloomed into life on the front lawn of house 38 right next to the expensive and always impeccably clean cars in the driveway. I walk deeper in, to the end of the long artery before turning into one of the last dead-end branching off. One of my more immediate neighbours has the TV on in their living room but nobody is in. Another living room is messy and cluttered with children toys and laundry baskets. No one can be seen either. A measly string of fairy lights strewn across my front door illuminates my way faintly. On the roof of the house, a couple of pigeons are hanging out, surveying the street. I nod to them, slide my keys into my front door, and disappear inside.