Years ago rain like this made me feel glad to be alive.
I remember getting soaked to the skin coming home from school and then hanging my wet clothes to dry on a line in the scullery. Even a scolding from my mum didn't dampen my spirits. I was too happy dunking chocolate digestive biscuits into a mug of hot tea until the chocolate melted and I could lick it off while the fire in the hearth roared and crackled and sparks jumped onto the iron grate and smoldered for a few seconds before going out for ever.
Am I alone in thinking this way now?
Just last night I saw a news report about an old man who'd lost his wife in a landslide. His hamlet was cut off for days because flooding had washed away roads and bridges in a rural area still struggling to recover from a major earthquake at the start of the year. He was watching rescue workers sticking poles into the grimy mud. Now and again he held his head in his hands. But sometimes they were clasped together as he offered a prayer she'd be found. He faced the camera and asked what he'd done wrong to deserve such misery twice in one year.
Keiko touched my shoulder and placed a palm-sized plate of sliced kiwi fruit on my desk.
"You've been crying again," she said.
I guess mood swings are difficult to hide from someone who's been with me for half a lifetime. They worsened after Japan closed its borders two months ago to all but essential diplomats, billionaires with connections, and the military. We ordinary folk are told we're safe but most believe we're trapped.
"Yes," I said. "Sorry, but I'm drowning here in a sea of tears."
Outside, the rain beat down on our temporary dwelling like there was no tomorrow.
