Secret Pop

Dec 17, 2002

Rain and Rye Bread

How I do love the rain. When it pours. Especially when it pours. Making a run for it. Giggling and sprinting into the house. Delighting in the shelter it provides. You're never as glad to be back home as when you're taking refuge there. And then you're lured immediately to the fireplace and to the warmth of a cordial (and to the company of the elite who won't think you retarded and affected for calling a shot of Goldschlager "a cordial") and records playing while the dialogue flows and the semi-absence of time that takes over when the day is just grey from end to end and you can't tell it's over until it's quiet and dark.

But I love to be in it as much as I love to come in from out of it. The cars that drove against the curbs today looked as if they were surfing. Great fans of water shot up from under their tires. What a hurry they were all in. And I stood under the private shelter of my leopard print umbrella and waited for my car to be retrieved. And I laughed at how cold and wet everything was. How my new handbag was faring. The way it smells when the world is soaked. And how you can begin looking forward to the bright, fresh tomorrow. The squeaky clean skies above the still damp streets. If the sun makes a go of it, the city will look like a postcard of what a coastal holiday purports to be. Set a white Christmas against a golden one and I wonder which one pulls ahead in the popular races.

I ran across the street to buy ice cream to serve with a hasty dessert. The sidewalks weren't so wet that I made a mess of my shoes. I ran the whole way. And I remembered how much I enjoy the taste of cold air in my lungs and the angry beating of an effort-roused heart. I love that there are places I can run to.

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