More Rain

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It was early morning, the sort of quiet, dim hour when the world seems suspended between night and day, and there he was again—George. I’d come to expect him by now, his soft presence just beyond the window, feeding on the lush green grass that fringed the nursing home grounds. There’s something surreal about seeing a kangaroo so close, yet George and I have grown accustomed to one another, like two old souls who meet by chance but somehow understand the other's need for silence.

The rain had been relentless these past few days, the sky sagging under a blanket of thick clouds, endlessly spilling their contents. It’s strange to think that in a place like this, which so often feels like a waiting room for the inevitable, there could be such life beyond the glass. Yet, there he is—George, my strange friend—standing tall on his hind legs, surveying the sodden earth before seeking shelter under the eaves.

He doesn’t mind the rain much, though he prefers the dry. When the downpour becomes too heavy, he’ll shuffle closer to the building, huddling beneath the edge of the roof, waiting for a break in the weather. I sit in my chair, wrapped in a blanket, watching him as the water drips from the eaves in steady, rhythmic plops. His ears flicker now and then, catching some distant sound, but otherwise, he’s calm, unbothered.

Sometimes, when the rain eases, he’ll resume his grazing, his mouth moving slowly as he pulls at the grass. We’ve never exchanged a sound—no cries or calls, only looks. But it’s enough. I’ve come to think of George as a companion of sorts, a reminder that there’s life beyond these walls. Even as the days blend together, marked only by meals and routines, George offers me a glimpse of something wild, something free.

And that, perhaps, is more than enough.