When It Rains

I miss you when it rains.

Writers have a certain sadness, I think. The peculiar discipline of scooping into one’s own soul, to pour it onto a page requires complete honesty. To write is to imagine oneself living, if only vicariously, as another being. That sharing of a mind, soul and body is exhilarating, but too, exhausting. The knowledge that you can make yourself into anyone, anywhere, brings a certain sadness and the relentless question of “Am I who I’m supposed to be?”

It’s the rain that does it. Those long hours of a soft, insistent downpour wash away not just the dust of daily life but all defenses too. How easy it is to get caught up shuffling along, haggling over curtains, putting time and energy into silly things that make one’s day complete — as long as there is sunlight. But the rain, dissolving my distractions, brings me back to the question.

And I know the answer. Rain or no rain, it’s seared into my soul; a purple, deep as the dappled shadows of a front porch hammock on a starry night. Who I want to be is the impetuous and bright-eyed beauty you crave but so easily forget. Who I am isn’t as simple.

But one thing is …

I miss you — and the me I am when I’m with you — when it rains.