The road carries the hum of recent rain today. A populace quietly going about its business, rubber rolling on damp bitumen, a gentle tide washing in and out.

A few days ago the sun was hot, stinging the skin. Today, passing snippets of conversation speak of the cold, whilst tucking hoods close on the backs of their necks. A liminal day. The present, the ‘now’, hanging loosely between past and future, hovering before ‘next’.

Days like this, my identity shifts and slips with the weather. The self I have been is grieving. I cannot quite hear the self I will become. But the light drifting in and out from behind the clouds reminds me she is waiting.