It will not stop raining.
Literally. It has rained for what seems like weeks. Coming off 3 straight months of blankets of snow, (no joke-look up Moncton snowfall for this year and you’ll see), enough snow to collapse roofs of sheds and garages, the rain is a sick sad joke, a curse sent upon us. Just enough to make everything green and sweet, but leave it wet enough so my lawn grows like the Nile. I don’t dare mow it, worried I’ll destroy yet another mower.
I’m about ready to buy myself a goat, tether it to the front lawn. Might keep away pesky kids with flyers and Jehovah’s I think.
The rain, the incessant rain, the only words we can speak “Will it stop raining soon? When will the sun come out? Had enough rain?” So typically Canadian, this focus on the weather. It’s the common divider, the soft reasoning in public, the cushion. The weather is safety, out of our hands but not political. Just, rain.
So we talk about it more. I talk about it, and I blame it for my anger, my sadness, my irritation, my complete and utter lack of motivation unless food is somehow involved. My house stands messy and slightly odor ridden and I just don’t care. I haven’t the effort, or the will. And the rain I blame, the grey, the messy sigh out the window I give.
There are decisions to be made, decisions deferred, and I’m waiting for the sun to find me before I make them. I spend the weekend in another city, full of rain, full of grey, but feel at home. I see whales, fins of minke whales from a distance and I glow at my lover, amazed. I spend the weekend glowing. Wet and slightly chilled because I insist on wearing shorts or skirts, but in a constant state of wonder and calm. A place where I feel at home. A place that fits.
It’s not just the rain. It’s this place. It’s 10 years of a place I feel outside in. Ever had a pair of pants that fit, technically, that look ok you suppose, that almost make your butt look good, but they just don’t work? You can’t explain it, if it’s the darts or the fabric or the cuffs but there’s something about them you cannot stand. They keep you warm and covered, they do what pants essentially should, but they don’t make you feel beautiful. They don’t hug your curves or make you feel womanly.
Those pants are the city I live in, have lived in, have tried to give the college try, have attempted to love. But it’s empty, and seemingly cursed like the sky. A perpetual motion machine when all I crave is silence and stillness and some sort of age. I crave a land that knows its name and age, that remembers where it’s been and loves itself more for it. A place judged on merits other than having an Old Navy and baby boomer bands once a year.
I want a place that greets my heart and soul, and this isn’t it. It never was. It’s a lot of things. It’s where my children were born. It’s where my marriage slowly floundered, a dull descent into its own hell. It’s where I went to hell and back, needlessly.
But it’s not home. It’s never, ever been home.
And I want home.
I hate some cities. Ottawa. I absolutely despise Ottawa. I don’t know if it’s because I grew up nearby and harbour opinions about the city because I was dragged there every.single.year in winter to
freeze my ass off skate on the canal or if the sheer number of government workers makes me twitchy but I cannot deal with the city. Same from Brampton. Just, too weird. But I love Kingston where I was born, nestled near Lake Ontario, privy to the Thousand Islands. I love Nashville.
Hated Houston. Apathetic about Toronto.
I need a city to inspire me, a place. Small towns with age hold me rapt because they transport me, let me feel and smell the people who have come before me, walk with them. Imagine their children bawling in the dark air. The world should be full of magic, even the everyday type, not full of anger and rage and stuff. The sheer volume of “stuff” and its resultant worries in this city is like a sore I cannot heal. I’ve said it of other places, and I’ll say it of this place.
There is no poetry here.
Is there poetry where you live, beauty? Does it matter to you what’s outside your door, or is it home that you crave, behind your own doors?