Rain

I woke up to the sound of rain, the gentle susurration of water slipping across the leaves of the live oak, falling down from the shingles of the roof, cascading onto the little wooden staircase leading from the south porch.  The pearl-grey half-light of cloud-shrouded skies made every shade of green outside the window somehow more intense that even full sun.

I wanted you to be there.  I would take your hand, and we'd walk out across the sparkling new-mown yard, heedless of the cool rain coming down.  Under tulip poplars still carrying their yellow-green and orange cups, you'd pull me into your arms, and I am quite sure that the tears slipping down my cheeks would mix in with the rain and go unnoticed.

I'm so very tired, and I've missed you so very much, you see.  I see you everywhere.  You hide in unexpected corners of daily routine.  You are in most of my books, just waiting for the unwary turn of a page.  You're in the big black crows that I see everywhere, clever-eyed and beautiful.  You're in the lyrics of every other song.  You're in the rumble of the thunder.  You're in the rain.

And this is maudlin, sentimental and overdone.  I dislike it even as I'm writing it.  Tomorrow, the sun will be out, and I will not be so full of that all-pervasive greyness that makes me wish.  Tomorrow, the armor of routine will insulate me, cut me off from everything not necessary to survive.  This does not mean, however, that if you were to appear on my doorstep right now, broad shoulders and hair dampened with this rain, that I would not step outside to meet you with open arms.