Rain

 

 

Here is the rain. Music. Night of water. Nice to be inside.

 

 

My first big memory of rain was when I was about seven. We were living with the Lehmans - my mom, Bo, Stoney and me. I guess we couldn’t afford our own place, or were saving some money before we moved across the country to Denver, so Mom could go to school.

 

 

It rained, a heavy, violent rain. It was summer. I ran, naked out into it. I loved it so much - dancing around, feeling the pulsing and wildness of the air. We were all hippies, so it was natural for me to be naked. The Lehmans lived on some land in the country. Big house.

 

 

When I moved to New Orleans, I got caught and soaked in the rain all the time. Felt like Heaven, letting the warm rain get me, clothes clinging to me, bedraggled hair. Sheer joy.

 

 

There were a few years, about a decade ago, when we had a drought here. I was sad, like a friend had died and it was sinking in that she wasn’t coming back. Foundations of homes cracked from the dryness. The city is built for rain.

 

 

In Colorado, snow was the falling water. Rain came in flights between the alternating clouds and sun in the summertime. Sometimes, it would lightening and not even rain, like wanting to sneeze.

 

 

Floods are real.

 

 

Patty Stallard told me about a flood that happened before I moved here. The heavy rain and rising waters forced her and her college friends to spend the entire night at Fat Harry’s. Then somebody came riding down St. Charles on a boat to get her.

 

 

Hurricanes are an event of whipping winds and the water of the oceans. The rain is secondary. The storms come all the way from Africa. Karma.

 

 

Before Katrina, hurricanes were more festive. We’d move the furniture away from the windows, take in any objects that could fly around, and stock up on batteries and wine. Now impending hurricanes horrify us.

 

 

This rain, January rain, made the town dark early. It’s not as cold as it could be. It’s expected to fall for a whole other day.

 

 

Hallelujah! All our quiet actions, cloaked in rain for another dance around the sun. All the things we had been planning to do maybe we won’t now. We can slow down to the speed of water. Wash away our minds, and awake, like the light green grass, with the sun.