It’s raining really hard
Coming down in buckets. As if all the mythical creatures in the heavens decided to start crying at once. Early April. Spring tease has been here. Flowers blooming. Trees budding. Now it rains. Blows. Storms.
I sit socially distant. Looking at the rain. Listening to it on my roof. The symbolism is inescapable. Tears. Outpouring. Cleansing. Stormy winds. Powers far beyond our control. Floods and destruction. Also, cycle of life. Nature’s way. New growth.
Inside. Safe and dry. Warm. Not the fortune of all.
There is nothing good or bad about it. If I wasn’t here right now I wouldn’t experience the rain. If I was born in six months I might only know the virus as a story told by my parents. If, like my mother, I died three weeks ago Friday, nothing material would exist.
It’s all one moment followed by the next, like the falling drops.
