Bank Holiday

It is raining. The confinement and the stuffiness inside have made me tired and short-tempered. I want sleep, but the inexorable natter of petulent children, teasing and arguing and crying, grinds away the soft drowsy edge. A door slams. They are short-tempered, too.

Wind-driven rain shears flakes of grey white paint from the window frames; they spiral downwards and then cling, sullenly inert, to the greasy pavement. The tree outside the window shivers and stretches sideways, its overturned leaves the same drained color as the ragged sky.

To break the monotony, we go out, a trip to the mall. In a place where it rains so much, it's surprising that there's so little for young children to do indoors. Television makes me hot and itchy. It makes my eyes hurt. It makes the children want things that they do not need. It steals our time.

The rain has slowed, it is now merely a wet dust. The drops dance in the wind and cling to my face and lashes like tears. This is not a falling rain, it is a settling one. A steel drum band plays grimly under a black canopy in the center of town. The children drop coins in the cases and dance until we are out of earshot. No one stops to listen.

The children splash in puddles with their boots, but even this is tedious to them. They want to go home. They want to be warm and dry. They want to watch television. So do I.

It is still raining.