When I was little
we would drive to Stephenville every second Saturday to get groceries
I liked it best when it rained
as we drove past grey granite cliffs along the TCH
imposing and stark, the haunted houses of nature
ennobled by the rain and fog.
It was comforting knowing there it was cold and wet
But so warm and dry here in the Chev
pleasant shivers to remind me
backs of parents’ heads in the front seat, gently muttering CBC Radio.

I could hypnotize myself staring at droplets on the window
the vibration would carry them on journeys across the glass
until they were gone from view, traceless and trail-less
I imagined they went somewhere warm to reconvene with the others
share anecdotes of racing from the sky
and just be together
safe from jagged grey faces with their romantic gloom
and uncertainty.