All day, it rains.
Dog and I take the old path through the woods, past the troll tunnels and under the trees with spindly, moss heavy branches. They remind me of tarantula legs.
Attempts at waterproof don't work. I am drenched before half way. It is good to be here though, where the leaves of spring are lately unfurling, where the light reaches even under the thick pine. On the way back we visit the river. Dog swims after sticks. Bird acrobats flip over the water's surface.
At home, the kettle bubbles. Everything seems so ordinary. I get changed into dry work clothes and off I go and act as though everything is ordinary, everything is fine.
Rain falls heavier. I drive home slowly, over a slick of precipitation and bumps of tree shrapnel.
'After 24 hours,' my friend tells me, later this evening; weary from her hospital vigils, her voice echoed by poor reception: 'that's when they can register his death.'
We sigh. 'If you feel relieved, don't feel guilty.'
'Remember when I met him?'
We smile. Trying to be so cool, she accidentally burnt his arm.
He fell in love.