When you are lying in bed, listening to the sound of rain, there is no pattern. You can not predict what sound is going to come next like the steady beating of a heart, or the low, repetitive, hum and the odd clank that a train makes. Drops fall from the heavens. Hurtling down towards the corrugated iron of our roof, I wonder. I wonder if the rain drops’ know that as soon as their journey ends, a new life starts, that everything is put into perspective and they relies that they are part of something much bigger. How its just part of the cycle. I think death is a lot like rain. You may be able to predict it a day before it strikes, maybe even a month. Sometimes, it comes at random and nobody is prepared. But we all experience it, someday. Maybe we don’t want to and it catches us out, unaware, not ready. Maybe we have been waiting for it and welcome it. But it’s always okay, because, like rain, death is a thing that we can’t stop. We are able to pause it, but, in the end, it is there. Waiting. And although, the sun may not shine tomorrow, or even the next day, it will come too.