Six Degrees of Lee

May 2016

In memory of Lee Avery (13 November 1956 - 27 May 2016)

Rain. Grey skies. Cold. 6° Holding sadness and stillness in the tiny cupped cells of my skin. Strangely at home in a moment of suspended time: droplets of grief clean and fresh on my upturned face. Darkness cowers under the torrent of rain relentlessly sheeting down on streets flat and familiar. I went past the house I used to live in. It’s not my home now, but it is still my street. The city moves as I move within its winding fragrance. I notice details and understand. I love this place between the ocean and the frosted hills. I smell eucalyptus and know I am Australian - a traveller returned home, south by 6°. The rain washes clean all my grimy anxiety; fear swept away as I stand at the pedestrian crossing, waiting for a break in the traffic. I hear the rain pounding the roads. I breathe in. I don’t need to pray. I just know. Rounded danced droplets are smashing the streets; the soundscape a cacophony of vehicles, rain, wind, restaurant noises. I am still. The rain dances. It’s cold outside but I’m warm inside. I feel. I am present in the moment. There is nothing to fear; nothing to decide. It has all been said. They hold each other. There is only the simplicity of rain on a quiet afternoon and 6° of Lee, separated by a few glistening smiles and breath held, expelled.

Image credit: Photography of Lee Avery by Ellen Avery ©2016, reprinted with permission.