Archives for posts with tag: rain

Walking down the street, I take notice of the same sorts of things each day, but on some days little things pop out at me, depending on the moment, the time of day, the mood, the weather.

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Walking down the street, I take notice–
I like the way the rocks look when rain drizzles down,
painting them with drops
that make their inner beauty
come out in splashes of color.

Rain slaps down on the hoods of cars, while short Palm trees, in their brick enclosures, swing around–as though they are taking in a good scream from the wind. Other more delicate plants flail in their pots. I look out the window. 

Japanese lanterns spin around less violently, enclosed by the outside overhang, bringing my attention to those lanterns adorned with images of Japanese women in traditional Japanese robes; the other lanterns covered in flowers, black and red orchids. 

I look down at my bento box lunch, thinking how neat and tidy and lovely to have so many compartments, organized in such a way as to make the contents each have their own place–each component adding to the beauty of the whole.

Driving in the rain–
black pavement
is a canvas fit
for bright
lights.

Street lights and
car lights make
the roads glow with color.

I drive
through rain, following in a
steady stream, feeling
secure in the bright
night.

I drive by the pool
under the night sky;
steam rises, lights are bright;
aqua blue waters illuminate–
swimming in the rain.

The boss in on vacation,
enveloped by the warm humidity of Vietnam.

We receive the call from the buyer’s assistant.
The deal has been closed.
Texts back and forth to confirm.

Not much will change, or at least at the outset.

I look out through the window of his empty office,
in darkness, the only light coming from the outside.
I stand and look at the city covered in gray and white,
rain patterning down,
trees scattered along bare sidewalks,

As I look, I see there a bare tree with one lone leaf not its own,
caught in its branches,
holding it there until it blows away.

Two nights ago on September 1, 2013 at 1:36 a.m., it rained for less than 60 seconds.

I had just gotten out of bed to brush my teeth. When I laid back down, I heard pitter-pat pitter-pat. I kept listening in disbelief. Raining? It was so hot today. I listened for a few seconds more, then I rushed out to the living room to tell M. He was about to come wake me up to tell me the same, but he said he wasn’t sure he should wake me.

We looked outside together but couldn’t see the rain. We couldn’t even hear it. I told him it was a good thing we didn’t paint the table and benches today–the old weathered table and benches we found at an estate sale two Sunday’s ago. That table in its weathered state reminded me of my grandfather and of the outside tables and chairs that he used to make with his own two hands–the chairs I used to sit in. I wondered if they were still there or if my uncle had thrown them out.

Then–the rain was gone like it never happened. I went back to sleep with a smile on my face. A few moments, right after I laid back down, I could smell the faint smell of wet earth. What a wonderful smell. My smile grew.

Two nights ago, I dreamt of my mother. I rarely dream about her, which I told my uncle recently when he told me that he had dreamed of her. He said, “My sister looked really happy,” as he choked back a small rise of emotion.

Her memory is entwined with my existence.

For a great stretch of my life, I tried to live in a way that would give her spirit a second chance at life, to live in a way that would bring her the peace that she didn’t seem to have for the short period of time I knew her. I still have that on my mind, but it has become more embedded within my soul, and in some ways I feel as though both of our spirits have come together in harmony, and now I don’t focus on her peace any longer because I think we reached it together–her peace.

When I look into the mirror, as the years have gone by, more and more, the reflection looking back has glimmers of her; when I see certain pictures of myself, I see her smile; when I cry after reading a short story, I think of her; when I witness certain acts of kindness, I remember the things my mother did for others; when I think of how sometimes it’s easier to open up and reach out to strangers more so than family, I think of my mother; when my temper gets the best of me, I am my mother. The positive and the negative are within me. I accept that. I work on and nurture what I can.

It’s comforting to know she’s with me and within me–that I recognize her.

Two night’s ago, I dreamt of my mother. I was in a hospital looking for her. In the dream I think she may have been in an accident. I don’t remember. I went to one room–room 103. There was a sign in the hall leading to the rooms that said for staff only. I tried to go down the hall, but I was cutoff and somehow the nurse knew where I was going, who I was looking for. My mother had been moved into another room. She pointed to the next hall of rooms and told me I would find her in there. I was hoping she was alone.

As I walked into the room, I saw her resting. She had a glow around her and her salt and pepper hair was mostly dark brown and glistened. She immediately sensed me, opened her eyes and gave me the warmest most peaceful smile. I went to her, beaming with a smile of my own, I bent my head down to her and rested it in the crook of her neck in her nest of hair and breathed her in as though I hadn’t seen her in forever.

She smelled like the rain.