It's raining. The weather has certainly washed away any last sign of summer, and immediately we are reaching for the jumpers and jackets we had hidden away in the back of wardrobes. Cricket season has not yet finished, footy season only weeks away. Last year it was hot in March - wasn't it?
For many, rain brings memories of forgotten times.
School lunch times when it was too wet to go outside so a wet weather program was enforced. Movies, bored teachers watching your every move. Boys throwing hot chips at your head, girls sitting in corners with heads buryied in books. Friends sharing secrets and batting eyes at the boys opposite them. Short school dresses despite the cold weather. You sat shivering in your long woollen dress, the only one who's ended below knees. A Hawthorn jumper hidden under your blue school one, trying to keep your bones warm, but failing as back then your body was cold to the core.
Rainy holidays cramped up in hired houses that carried nothing of yours that would help to entertain you. Only well used board games you had stopped playing years ago, packets of cards old, creased in the corners, some missing. Your mum would search for tea in the bare pantry, hoping the landlords had left behind a few bags so she did not have to drive to the store. Your sisters entertaining themselves and each other, because that is what they did, no matter the weather. Your brothers taking their game of backyard cricket into the already crowded hallway. You can't remember what you were doing, and by then your dad had already left.
Sitting at the train station, cigarette in hand hoping the person approaching would not ask you for a spare. Uni bag over your shoulder, heavy with books that can't keep your interest. Wet hair from the walk down the hill, you hate using umbrellas. Converse sneakers muddy from the unsealed roads. You keep your eyes down to the floor, hoping the train would come, hoping you don't have to make conversation with anyone. Hoping the rain would stop, hoping you would finally get the courage to go for your license.
Car windows steaming from your warm breath as the rain continues to pelt the foggy windscreen. The wipers are not fast or new enough to keep up with the drops that land on the car. Your car. Finally. It has no air conditioning, the heating barely works, no power steering, and the battery keeps failing causing you to keep jumper leads in your boot, but it is yours. Your driving slow, still too nervous to break the speed limit, conscious your tires are old and bare and would be little help to you in these conditions. You love that car. You love being alone in it.
Lying on your bed in the new room of the old house. Looking out the corner windows through the rain to the trees and green beyond. Book in hand, but forgotten. Pen and paper next to you, waiting for you to write something, anything. You keep it on the table next to the bed in case you wake with a 3am epiphany. So far the pages are blank. The rain is loud on the flat tin roof above, the sound comforting. The roof used to leak, the room used to be a laundry and before that a carport. Now it is yours. You finally have a lock on the door. Your sister's can no longer come in and take your stuff without asking, returning it dirty or not at all. You are yet to realise one day you would miss this closeness. Miss them wanting to borrow your stuff. Yet to realise that one day it will be you visiting the room and wardrobe in the rain looking for something to wear.
Aware of the rain and the bad weather only because of the increased shoppers in the dry centre. You smell of grease, and fat, and oil. You have been here since 6am, in no hurry to leave even though your shift is about to finish. You feel safe here, behind the counter, surrounded by younger people who for some reason look up to you. It's why you don't want to leave, and why it takes you 10 years to do so.
You pull out of the pancake parlour's exit, friends next to you, laughing in the back of the car. Light rain has started to fall. You all smell of coffee and cigarettes after sitting outside despite the winter cold, catching up on stories you forgot to tell the night before at the same spot. Your car lurches, its revs drop and you can feel the power leave it's engine completely. It has stalled again. You try the roll-starting technique your boyfriend has taught you, but you don't have enough speed. The rain continues to fall as your friends next to you curse as the realisation they might have to get out and push. And then the car picks up, the speed starts, you look in the review mirror and see four boys your age behind your car, pushing it to the speed you need. You put it in gear, step on the accelerator, the clutch and with a slight foot movement jerk it to life. You all wave at the boys, and yell out thanks, your friends with their heads out the windows, no longer worried about the failing rain.
On a bus to work, the rain falling, those behind the steering wheels forgetting how to drive. Your own car is long gone, finally gave up and died fter continually stalling in inconvenient places. The bus is full of school girls with short skirts, clutching regulation hats and bags. Their chatter reminds you of the high school days you have longed to forget, but you can't help smiling at their conversations. You are nervous, still. You have only been at this job a few months, and everything is still so new. You don't have an umbrella, still hate using them, will get wet walking from the bus stop to the office, will be late if this rain does not stop.
Sitting on the floor of the lounge room of your first home, or what will be the lounge room. There is no furniture in it yet, only the four camping chairs you have set up so you can come here for piece. You love this house already. The small gas heater is on in the corner, its September, and cold. The rain is falling, you can hear it on the skylight in the kitchen and know if you drew the mustard coloured curtains would see it falling on the floor to ceiling windows of your home. You need to replace those curtains.
Your wedding day. November. It's not just raining, but pouring, it has not stopped. Hail, winds that whip the tress so violently they fall down. Everyone is late, the rain making everything take longer. You step out of the car, knowing everyone is waiting, your wedding dress and vail flying in the wind. Umbrellas are everywhere, trying to keep you dry, trying to keep you safe. Someone steps on your dress as you rush to go inside, out of the rain. You feel the pull of the stitch and know your dress has broken. Your mum looks like she is going to cry, your brothers and dad don't know where to look. Your sister, crowd around in matching dresses and tell you everything is going to be alright. You ask for a needle and thread, ask for someone who can sow, ask for someone to tell the guests you are running late. Ask for everyone to calm down, because that is what you always do.
It's pouring, the footy ground mushy and wet, like football used to be before stadiums were built with roofs. You can barley see the players. You are undercover, just, but the wind is blowing so fiercely the rain hits you anyway. It falls off your clear coloured poncho and into the beer you are holding. Your mascara is running, two of your friends decide to leave, there is only two of you left now. You are drenched, even under the poncho, your Hawthorn scarf dripping from the rain. You look at your friend and smile, call out to the players as they score another goal, cheers, have another beer. It's raining, but you are happy.
