aamhu

Sometimes there’s a cat on this route- black, with a tag that says Rahoon cat. When he’s there, it feels lucky.

No cat today, or yesterday, or for many days now. Rahoon cat mightn’t be a fan of the rain. I’m uncertain where I stand.

I said this is my favourite season. My favourite weather. Fallen leaves and crusted coffee lids. But leaves mulch. What I imagine to be a Snoopy scene of piled, crunchy foliage is only fanciful. The reality is wet shoelaces- a second knot over the first. I tend to make bad decisions when stressed, regretting them later, trapped in my wet shoes. You can prolong the suffering, kicking them off without untying a single loop. You’ll face the consequences, but at least the sun might be out next time you do.

A cacophony of horns spills through three traffic lights, each turning green in turn. It’s a wonder we’re not all heading the same direction, driven mad by stress and stalling cars. It’s an industrial walk- the laneway of trees just out of reach as I turn right into the hospital grounds. Inviting, in its way: speckles of light, broken dashes of rain.

Sometimes the ambulance doors are open, but you never see who’s inside. Morbid curiosity- wanting to see someone wheeled in, to imagine their illness, to make a story from it. Other ghostly people flit about, smoking in dressing gowns, driving in circles around the car park, over and over again.

AAMHU hides itself down a lane. Worn coloured dots mark the tarmac, to be followed like a yellow brick road. Everybody tightly smiles- coffee cups in hand, lanyards swinging. And inside, all the door handles are smooth and rounded, for obvious reasons. The metal still cool from rain.