Air

Begin where you stand.

It's raining, the kind of rain that gets you wet. I always say this, always describe the droplets, as rain that gets you wet, as though it's different to other kinds, as though the formula intends this time to soak to the skin, to drench you entirely. Yet despite the downfall of constant splatters, the rain that you don't notice until you see the darker denim in contrast to the lighter dryer denim of your jeans, I continued to walk at this slow pace.

Cars pass me in a flurry, as though everyone within the whole world is in a constant rush to get home, to get out the rain, to snuggle by picturesque fires with hot chocolate and family. It's funny I think, the way in which cars speed up when it rains and pedestrians slow down. For the people in the car aren't wet yet their destination always seems more important than yours, they impatiently wait, revving the car as they do so, for you to cross roads and pick up pace along zebra crossings, yet its you getting wet, not them.

This is irrelevant.

Its about seven o'clock. I only know this because the school cleaner, like she always does, came over to me with a pitiful look in her eyes and said

"You're gonna have to tidy up and go now, I'm afraid. I'm locking up" I looked to the table at the said belongings I had to tidy. A leather notebook and a black biro, hardly a mess. But I stand from the same college library table that she mutters the same phrase to me everyday at and follow her orders. We walked to the exit together and I waited for her to lock the front doors of the college before giving her a nod and turning to leave. She offered me a lift. As always, I decline. Never in a hurry to get home. Never in a hurry to get anywhere.

I pulled my hood up and walked from under the sheltered entrance out into the rain.

I've been walking for about twenty minutes now. On a good day this walk takes ten. Most days it takes forty. I prolong it for as long as possible no matter what the weather, no matter how dark the night threatens to get. I like to mix up my route, walk around the same block a few times, wonder in and out of lit up corner shops along the way. Just so that when I finally reach home, two things will most likely have happened. Renee will be asleep and my Mother will be mimicking a foetus position, lying on the couch and pretending to do the same. Except sleep doesn't come easily to the rest of us. No picturesque fairytale, no fireplace or hot chocolate. No family.

I finally reach my garden, it's wilting and depressing. My mother never liked gardening on the best of days but after Alex she despised it even more. I think its because deep down she knows that it's the same kind of soil he's cocooned within. Maybe I'm thinking too much into this, maybe she really just can't be bothered to pluck up weeds anymore, she has no one to impress, everyone expects her to be in mourning, including the flowers that once grew, and so as the perfectionist person she has always tried to be, she will give them what they expect.

I'm standing at the top of the garden path looking down to the - our blue door. Imaging what it was like before. When she paid Nigel that creep once a fortnight to trim the grass, and often came home with a seasonal bulb set to plant. I think back to what it was like when it was good, truly good. When Ezra's bike would be laid strewn across that patch of grass just there, the patch that had become used to it's daily flattening from bikes swung down in haste. And then just when I think I'm going to finally have a good memory, I catch a glimpse of your bedroom window and I remember what comes out of these memories.

Just pain, that's all.