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July 22, 2018

30. Spate

I awoke before my alarm. The pouring rain was a soothing replacement to the usual buzzing sound. The house was still and quiet. The sun suggested its arrival without any formal pomp. But it was mostly damped by the heavy and blurry clouds.

I donned my casual raiment: waterproof boots, rain boots, rain jacket, and stepped out the door.
Everything is gray and sad. No matter your temperament, the weather is sad. It’s crying. The clouds are weeping. Their weight is being unyolked; is it tears of joy? The rest of us, walking on earth, endure the deluge. The joy of clouds and weather and nature becomes our sadness.

I recognized familiar faces in trees along my walk. The grass spoke to me: stay dry out there, kid. We’re soaked!There are no birds to speak of. This is not their weather. Poor wings must rest in this condition. Or do they just disappear and melt in this rain, only to reform and celebrate springtime when it’s sunny and beautiful tomorrow?

My jeans quickly soak across the thighs. It’s easy to get wet just standing here, waiting for my bus.

Through the percussion and hiss of the rain I hear a cymbal crash. Worms are pushed out of the saturate earth. Frogs jump by, as if called from the heavens with the deluge. The  ground and dirt bubbles up—looks like scalding lava but it’s just cold mud. I can’t tell if cars are being carried away by the growing rain or if by chance their tires somehow touch the road beneath the torrent. I think I hear a high-pitched sound, feedback or something. Then I don’t hear it. Did I make it up?

People in rain always seem to be leaving, escaping, evacuating. Never really in transit but more an exodus. Someone passing by is completely covered in their rain ware—there is no exposed flesh anywhere, no face, no hands—only a floating raincoat and umbrella miraculously hovering above nothing. They pass within inches and still I’m not sure if they are alive or present or a figment.

At any moment—the very next second—I could be dead. Do statistics of death spike in rain? Bad driving, drowning, slipping in puddles. Seems like some unfortunate folks might just dissolve or slip into quicksand-mud and cease to exist, unaware of themselves. Their families would search for them unbenounced they are right beneath their feet, soaking in yesterday’s forecast.

All we can do is live our lives. All we can ask is that others live theirs. Finally, here comes my bus.