Raining at Seven

Whenever I wake up to rain, I hear my aunt’s words.   She was tall and gentle.   She would get up early to prepare breakfast.  If rain  beat against the kitchen window, she would say, “Raining at seven, stopped by eleven.”   I loved the prophetic optimism.   Usually, it was true.   The rain would die away.  A fresh day outdoors could begin.   

When my father left home, apart from one brave second cousin, his family closed ranks.   My aunt was conflicted but loyal to her brother.   We never saw her.  She continued to send birthday cards and Christmas Cards.   She tried hard to adapt them to my growing years which she no longer shared.   She had children of her own, cousins I never knew.  She lived her life hoping for fairer weather.

I never saw my father again.  I encountered my aunt once more, only briefly, at his funeral which ended in turmoil.

I could tell from her eyes that sometimes the rain never stops.

Barry Jones is a history teacher living on London’s edge. Nature lover. In thrall to the power of words.