Today is 4 January, and the islands woke me before dawn.
Storm Francis arrived a couple of days ago— not politely, not quietly — but today the rain  found its way through the roof and straight onto my face. A rude awakening, especially on a Sunday. Sundays are meant to be softer here. The one day I’m not up at 5 a.m. preparing my husband for dialysis transport, or driving my daughter down the mountain to catch the first bus before sunrise.
But storms don’t check calendars.

Still, as the rain fell hard and close, my thoughts drifted somewhere unexpected — to the cabras. The wild goats that roam these islands freely, resilient and watchful. For them, this rain is not an inconvenience. It’s a feast. After long stretches of dry beige earth, the land is finally drinking again. Green will return. Slowly. Stubbornly. Miraculously.
The last storm came just before Christmas — Emilia — and it feels like the islands barely had time to dry their bones before Francis followed. Winter here doesn’t whisper. It announces itself.
And yet… this is how life survives here. Through weather. Through cracks. Through persistence.
Roofs may leak. Bodies may ache. Sleep may be stolen.
But nourishment is falling. The land remembers how to bloom. And so do we.

💫Maggie

The Afterlove Voice 💫