WATERING CAN

I’ve noticed today how brown the grass is. I mean it’s not scorched, but it’s not the lush green it was either. Summer has moved quickly this year.

When you’re young, your hope pushes you forwards, I think. There’s camaraderie, and laughter, and a sort of carelessness that whispers about how possible everything is. I miss that.

Anyway. I noticed the grass. And then, as if in response to an unspoken prayer, it actually started raining. Summer rain. You know, the big globules that steam out of the humid air, the rain that tickles your skin and wets your jeans but you don’t mind because it’s still warm. There wasn’t much of it: a passing shower, as though we were at the end of God’s watering can. I walked back as it dribbled and spotted out of the grey sky.

I like the idea of God with a watering can. I like him looking at me, poking the dry soil with a well-worn finger and then saying, “Yep, just as I thought. Here you go, little fella. I know what you need,” shortly before pouring the coolest, freshest water onto every inch of the earth and leaves.

I sheltered under the trees for a while. They still spread a green canopy, and the rain fell and dripped steadily.

I don’t think the grass ever truly forgets what colour it’s meant to be.