The Flood

The rain recently has been incessant. I don't like to complain, but when it gets to the stage that my choice of shoes is dictated not by my preference, but by which is the least damp, I think it's time for a dry spell. The paths along Melville Drive are now impassable.

But the rain today was the backdrop for a sadder story. My grandfather, my last remaining grandparent, died ten days ago. His cremation was this morning. I have to say that sleet and snow are probably the only conditions that can make Mortonhall Crematorium look even more depressing and cold than it usually does. The seven of us filed into the small chapel for the service. Snow covered, we took up only one pew. We seem to touch so many people in our time, and to see so few there to commemorate the end of someone's life was rather sad. Head bowed, hands clasped, I felt a drop of water fall softly onto my suit cuff. Not a tear, simply the last remnants of melting snow. The water mark faded as the service ended.

I guess nothing, not even life, persists for ever.

So here's hoping the rain doesn't either.