Fall Rain
It's raining today, the kind of rain that makes you understand why people use the word "downpour." I've got the back door open to the smells and sounds, even though water's starting to speckle the floor inside the screen and I know Michael would close it, if he were here. Sometimes it's nice to feel like you're in the middle of a rainstorm. When we were young my parents would take us out on the front porch to watch the rain, to count the seconds between lighting and thunder. I loved it, being surrounded by the storm and yet (mostly) safe under our house's roof.
Clyde has disappeared – I finally find him at the top of the stairs, where it's quieter. I sit down next to him and he rolls over so I can pet his belly. He's kept close to me the last couple of days. We're not following our normal schedule. It puts him on edge. Last night he kept staring at me and wagging his tail.
"What? You already had dinner."
Ears perk up. Slap, slap, slap of fur against floorboards.
"Do you want to go outside?"
He does his silly little hop-prance to the door but only stares back at me in anticipation when I close the screen behind him.
"I don't want to go outside with you."
He cocks his head to the side, then when I turn to walk away, lifts a paw to scratch at the screen. He's not happy until I follow him and sit on the steps of the deck to watch him sniff the grass and pee on my flowerpot. Later he runs towards the garage door, ears up, looking back at me in confusion when there's nobody there. Poor Clyde. He doesn't like people messing with his schedule. Thursdays are the day Michael comes home from Cincinnati, but this week he's in New York and won't be home for nine more days.
The rain's died down now, and I lay a towel down to soak up the raindrops that made it inside. It's a gray day, a lonely day, and the 90 degree temperatures of last week have given way to a slight chill, but at least I have a dog keeping my feet warm. Early fall is a strange time of year. Nothing's dead yet, but you're aware that it's all dying. The end of the year, end of another year, is coming. There's nothing so bad about that – you know it will all come back. But I'm not sure my insides understand that. They're on edge like Clyde's on edge. What if it doesn't come back? What if it can never come back?
I've kept myself pretty busy since Michael left, working and wasting time with Amanda. I bought gold triangle earrings and a geometric-print scarf and wore them while I cooked way too much brown rice. I got watercolors from the craft store and sat on the deck painting vibrant purple flowers and muddy snow drifts – and learning that with watercolors you can't come back once you put grey and blue in your white snow. Something I should have known already. I brought home a new rug, enamored with its colors even though I didn't know where I was going to put it. It ended up in the bathroom.
It seems like the quiet is catching up with me, though. A couple days ago I went through a spurt of cleaning activity, putting everything in its place, doing all the dishes, corralling my shoes, making the bed. But now everything's cluttered again and it seems like too much work to bother with right now. What's the point? All day I've stared at my list of things to do and felt entirely, utterly unmotivated to do them. How silly that I feel so aimless when Michael's gone. I've got plenty to do, plenty of purpose, plenty of ways to entertain myself. I like being by myself. I like time to think, nobody asking what I'm doing, nobody making any demands on my time.
It just seems so quiet.
The sun's peeking out a little bit, and I find myself missing the downpour. The light's just a little bit too bright. It's time to stop working, to stop writing, to get dressed and go to my parents' house for dinner. Clyde looks at me as I put on my shoes.
"Fine, you can come."
Keep on keepin' on.
Clyde has disappeared – I finally find him at the top of the stairs, where it's quieter. I sit down next to him and he rolls over so I can pet his belly. He's kept close to me the last couple of days. We're not following our normal schedule. It puts him on edge. Last night he kept staring at me and wagging his tail.
"What? You already had dinner."
Ears perk up. Slap, slap, slap of fur against floorboards.
"Do you want to go outside?"
He does his silly little hop-prance to the door but only stares back at me in anticipation when I close the screen behind him.
"I don't want to go outside with you."
He cocks his head to the side, then when I turn to walk away, lifts a paw to scratch at the screen. He's not happy until I follow him and sit on the steps of the deck to watch him sniff the grass and pee on my flowerpot. Later he runs towards the garage door, ears up, looking back at me in confusion when there's nobody there. Poor Clyde. He doesn't like people messing with his schedule. Thursdays are the day Michael comes home from Cincinnati, but this week he's in New York and won't be home for nine more days.
The rain's died down now, and I lay a towel down to soak up the raindrops that made it inside. It's a gray day, a lonely day, and the 90 degree temperatures of last week have given way to a slight chill, but at least I have a dog keeping my feet warm. Early fall is a strange time of year. Nothing's dead yet, but you're aware that it's all dying. The end of the year, end of another year, is coming. There's nothing so bad about that – you know it will all come back. But I'm not sure my insides understand that. They're on edge like Clyde's on edge. What if it doesn't come back? What if it can never come back?
I've kept myself pretty busy since Michael left, working and wasting time with Amanda. I bought gold triangle earrings and a geometric-print scarf and wore them while I cooked way too much brown rice. I got watercolors from the craft store and sat on the deck painting vibrant purple flowers and muddy snow drifts – and learning that with watercolors you can't come back once you put grey and blue in your white snow. Something I should have known already. I brought home a new rug, enamored with its colors even though I didn't know where I was going to put it. It ended up in the bathroom.
It seems like the quiet is catching up with me, though. A couple days ago I went through a spurt of cleaning activity, putting everything in its place, doing all the dishes, corralling my shoes, making the bed. But now everything's cluttered again and it seems like too much work to bother with right now. What's the point? All day I've stared at my list of things to do and felt entirely, utterly unmotivated to do them. How silly that I feel so aimless when Michael's gone. I've got plenty to do, plenty of purpose, plenty of ways to entertain myself. I like being by myself. I like time to think, nobody asking what I'm doing, nobody making any demands on my time.
It just seems so quiet.
The sun's peeking out a little bit, and I find myself missing the downpour. The light's just a little bit too bright. It's time to stop working, to stop writing, to get dressed and go to my parents' house for dinner. Clyde looks at me as I put on my shoes.
"Fine, you can come."
Keep on keepin' on.