Rain

It rained the day you left, not the bitter squall of anger but the gentle fall of quiet acceptance. Twenty-seven years together, so long ago and yet sometimes I feel as if you were here only yesterday. Sure the marriage was no bed of roses, but I remember such sweet moments. Wild, heady times of late nights in smoky nightclubs, me the shy young girlfriend, you the sophisticated singer in the band, a part of that strange group of people who live their lives between dusk and dawn. Late night parties with cheap red wine and spaghetti bolognese, where all the problems of the world were solved before the milkman came.

So many moments, lying in your arms listening to the drumming of a summer storm on the tin roof of your mother's home in the old mining town where you grew up. Running along the street to escape the sudden downpour which drenched us to the skin, then laughing as we toweled each other dry, back in your tiny flat in Kings Cross. Sitting on the floor crosslegged with a candle in a bottle for illumination and eating takeaway from some doubtful cafe around the corner.

Simple pleasures, sleeping on the beach on a hot summer night and waking as the sun rose to greet the day, the sight of you holding our first born child in your arms amazed at how clever we were and how beautiful he was. A little boy's football match with his faithful cheer squad, ballet concerts and singing eisteddfods and Sunday mornings with a bed full of kids and toast crumbs.

We took on the responsibilities of married life, I bore three of your children, our son, he of the blue, blue eyes and the happy laugh, the middle one all blonde curls and smiles "daddy's girl" and the baby, strong willed and determined with a marshmallow middle. We grieved together the loss of the child who was not born. Working together to provide for our children left us little time for us, little time to rationalise what was wrong between us, to repair the damage done by thoughtless words and indiscretions. There were angry times of recrimination, when hot bitter tears of resentment scalded my cheeks and I wished I had never met you. Times when voices raised in anger kept the little children born of our passion huddled in their rooms. Many times I vowed to leave but I loved you and through it all I would remember those sweet moments when you would tell me how much my love meant to you.

You bore the cross of your chronic illness with dignity. I am sure the pain you endured with severe rheumatoid arthritis helped you to bear the next lousy hand you were dealt. I laughed when you said, "this swollen gland in my neck doesn't seem to be going away, perhaps it's cancer." "Men!" I said, "can't have an ingrown toenail without it being a drama." But it was no time for laughing, and just the start of weeks of visits to doctors, specialists, hospitals and learning to cope with this new invader of our family circle.

There were times when I felt I had nothing left to give and you would reach inside some deep unfathomable well within yourself and find strength to buoy me up. This time of travail brought us so much closer, discounting the unimportant and emphasising the intangible core of love and commitment that held us together.

"Smell the rain," you would say, "the world is clean again." How I wish you had waited for me that day you left, I wanted so much to say goodbye, see you again, I love you.

It rained the day you left, not the bitter squall of anger but the gentle fall of quiet acceptance.