The night before Anzac Day I usually pray a bit. That it doesn’t rain in the morning. I hate to see the servicemen and women, the marching bands, the kids there in memory of their grandfathers, the diggers, walking down George Street in the rain.
Don’t rain on their parade, I chant all night to the powers that be.
I know the effort it has taken to get those uniforms perfectly pressed, I know how long they have polished their shoes, how they have shined their medals, how they have gotten up so early for the dawn service.
I want there to be an air of rejoicing, not sombre skies darkening the day.
I want as many people to turn up and show their support as possible which is less likely if it is pouring.
It was raining this morning. I heard it on the roof, brushing against the windows at 3AM.
There’s still time for it to stop, I thought, before going back to sleep.
But when I got up it was still raining. A slow drizzle that turned the streets silver.
I heard a woman fussing over her father who was preparing to march. She was complaining about the rain.
Her father said something that really moved me.
We don’t mind the rain, he said, it means we look for the sun. It’s a reminder we all came home. It’s a reminder that life goes on.
It always rains on Anzac Day.
Maybe it’s just as well.
Lest we forget.