Storm coming

They said there was a storm coming.

I looked out into the white afternoon, scanned the clear sky for warnings. I didn't believe them but I went anyway, down to the ivied shed where the lawnmower skulks among the rusted shells of garden tools.

The grass is still. The lawnmower protests, thinly, as I wheel it into place. I notice then that there aren't any other sounds. Even the birds are silent.

I push. The blades whir and bite into the lawn, crisply, neatly. I lay down smooth strips, sectioning, ordering. The cut grass is sweet.

The first time, I think I may not really have heard it, but then it comes again. A deep grumble that seems born in the earth, not sky. From the South a hem of thick clouds have begun their march upwards, onwards. The light is turning yellow at the edges.

I push harder. I don't know why but I think of her, then, and the pushing is somehow to do with her. It's important that I keep going, that I keep pushing, into the yellow air that crackles a little with captured energy, that I keep going when I should stop.

I hit a thick hillock of grass, and judder to a halt, panting. When I look up, my neighbour is standing a few feet from me. I didn't hear her arrive. The thunder rolls out somewhere close the ground again.

Hi, I say, palming the sweat off my forehead. The first heavy drop of rain falls. We grin at each other, at my crumpled clothes.

Would you like to come in for some tea? I ask. I know as I say it that it's the right thing to do.

We put the lawnmower away together, and go inside. I make peppermint tea, and watch the water steam in slowly rising curls, carrying the scent of mint. As we take our seats on the livingroom couch the rain starts abruptly, heavily, drowning the cut lawn with sudden fury. We sit and watch in silence.

She lived across the street, and down a few doors. Our friend who died. We used to play together when we were younger, all of us, in and out of the connecting gardens, under bushes and over walls. We had a secret handshake, a set of rules. We fought all the time.

I hadn't seen her for many years when they found her, one morning, in her bedroom. I hadn't seen my neighbour either, until the removal, or the others we used to play with. That was our reunion, in her house, when we came to pay our respects.

It was an accident, my neighbour said then. It was just an accident.

Whenever one or more of us come together she is there, or she is not. A thing or a lack of, that sits between us on the couch. We are careful not to mention it, but it's there. She is there.

There's a flash and the living room is whitened suddenly, overexposed, the corners jumping out. I count seconds until the thunder sounds, realising only then that I have been holding my breath.

Can I stay here until it's over? my neighbour asks.

I smile. Of course, I say.

We sit and watch the rain fall, together, the three of us.