Rain

This morning I looked out my bedroom window and I remembered yesterday and its winter rain. The trees were back to their regular wintry state, bony-fingered and bent, looming high and still against the sapphire sky, the snow that had coated them defeated by the rain.

It began with a mist, my windshield wipers straining and squealing against pinpricks of water dotting the glass, the roads becoming damp. The drizzle grew and the grass began to be visible again. A pall was cast and I watched shoppers run to their cars laden with packages and fumbling for keys. Clouds blanketed the sun and the now-gray sky eclipsed my memory of its eye-squinting reign the day before.

When the rain comes down like this, relentless and merciless, it fuses to me and makes me remember my failures. A summer rain means comfort and relief, a calming sound against the windows, a drink. A winter rain pours salt on my wounds and belittles my hopes of getting through the season unscathed. I pine for warmth, shrink against the oozing sky; it wins.

I woke this morning and stared out at the trees, wondered how they will be comforted today. Hovering and gaunt like sick old men, they must endure I as do, wait and wait until the sun begins to warm our side of the earth once again. It is far off, the new season, and I bide my time. I will watch for buds on my kindred souls, rejoice when the morning reveals a rebirth of their majesty.

Until then, we mark time, we hang tight.