& ones you wish you had
Twelve minutes past six it rains once, very quickly & heavily; but the garden bench is left dry except for the horizontal slats, which, slicked & mirrored, reflect the clouds. The whole garden is in light again. It’s a grey light. The garden wall, swagged with ivy and clematis, bowed under the weight of them & of the quince, looks like a tranquil graveyard just after rain. You’re being shown something. The thunder–which passes quickly into the distance, where it stays–is telling you something about what was never here, the gap you were already trying to fill. The light, decades old, issued from another garden. It spent many years arriving here with its meaningless postcard message, “Wish I was there.” In a minute you won’t even be the person who received it. The thunder will crawl off east, people will start coming home from work, or going away for the weekend. They’ll slam car doors.