Читать книгу Strangers - Rob Taylor - Страница 14

Rain. The sound of it on the roof. A song on the radio

I’ll almost remember tomorrow. Just enough light

to write by. A lamp I know I should switch on.

Soda crackers. Hot water with lemon. Dishes in the sink,

few enough I can put them off a while. In the afternoon

I’ll call my mother and we’ll talk about nothing,

the weather. I’ll ask if it’s raining there and she’ll say yes.

We’ll share some news about family or football,

and maybe reminisce a bit: my childhood, my father,

her life before us both. But mostly the rain,

which will lighten and finally stop around dinner

while my wife and I are filling the house with our talk

so we will not notice the change until hours later,

sitting in bed. One of us will lower their book

and mention it in passing. Or maybe

it will still be raining then, so we’ll say nothing

and in the morning we won’t be certain

if it ever stopped, or when it did

and when it started up again.