Back From The Weekend

Towel-dry your hair and put on a singlet, thick socks, a shirt and two jumpers, shivering in your unheated room. Wrap your neck in your biggest scarf and pull your hat down over your ears, pull on your new mittens and be late for the bus, head down into the rain. Look at the different shades of gray as the bus careens down the hill and through the tunnel: the sky, the sea, the clouds, the faces of your fellow bus riders. Wonder if your face is gray too, wonder if the rain and wind is getting in through your pores, under your skin. Put on some more lip balm and almost forget to ring the bell for the Cuba Street stop.

Watch it blow and bluster and hail through the windows all day; roll your eyes and pull your scarf tighter around your neck. Think about walking on the beach the other day, the other night. Think about eating cake for breakfast and dancing in the living room—congratulate yourself for having remembered to bring the cable thingy that would let everyone play their ipods on the bach’s stereo. Think about breaking in your new jeans by falling off a pogo stick into the mud. Think about the conversations you had, about the scarf you knitted in just a couple of hours because you didn’t have anything to do except sit around and talk and laugh and flirt and eat cake. Sigh. Sigh again.

The rain rains down and your feet get slightly soaked, despite your expensive boots and your aforementioned thick socks. Go to yoga and stop thinking for a while, but start up again as soon as you’ve wrestled on all your layers and jammed your hat back on over your sweaty curls. Catch a glimpse of your rapidly paling face in the dressing room’s mirror and think about islands, think about walking along the beach in the sun. Think about home, a little: nesting sea turtles, sea oats, the smooth waveless sea. Think about Waitarere, the exact opposite in every way: crashing, cold, exhilarating.

Ride the bus home, put in a load of washing. Put on an extra jumper and stoke up the fire. Listen to the cold and the gray and the rain shake the windowpanes, and think about walking along the sand, all the places in the world you’ve walked it.