rain

I don’t want to write about rain. There is too much of it, by and large, where I live. I want to write about Christmas lights, and sparkling bows, and parties with people we love.

I don’t want to write about rain. About how we learn to do what we want to do whether it’s pounding down or just a drizzle. About the million times this year we’ve ‘gone anyway’ – the sopping first night camping on Hornby, the day trips up island with the wipers swishing.

I don’t want to write about rain. It’s dreary and inescapable. But “at least we don’t live in Vancouver,” and "at least it isn't snow," we regularly console one another. It's poor solace, for cold toes and seeping dampness.