Rain

Rain - August #27

I have always liked rain. Maybe because when we were little and it was too wet to play outside, Mama let us make a tent of the kitchen table. We used sheets and old blankets and made the dog and cat get inside with us. I wanted it to be a playhouse where I would serve tea and cookies to my brothers, but I was outnumbered and it nearly always ended up being a fort, with me either a captured Indian princess or an orphan whose family had been killed by Indians. Occasionally, Mama would take my side and I got my way. The boys refused to come to tea and the cat ran out and got under the sofa and the dog just went to sleep, so it didn't take long for me to abandon the tent. The boys took over and started bossing me around, making stupid Indian sounds and pretending they were fending off the white man.

It's raining now, a hard rain with thunder and lightening. Just 15 minutes ago, there was bright sunshine and now it's dark and raining and windy. Both my dogs are curled beside me in the safety of our bed and Belle is shivering with fear. It just occurred to me that these "pop-up" showers are a metaphor for my emotions since Clint died. Like them, my tears come out of the blue. Usually, I can't put my finger on why they come, they just do. There is no way to know how bad they will be or how long they will last. Sometimes they're puddles that spill silently over my lower lids and roll down my cheeks. But they can be dark and loud and rough, like the storm we're having now. Widows of many years tell me that they still have episodes like this. Not much comfort in that.

Sundays are hard. Clint and I always watched golf or tennis on TV. We relaxed and I made little snacks instead of meals. He loved ripe brie spread on a piece of melba toast and topped with a dollop of hot and sweet mustard. I sometimes thought I could feed him hors d'oeuvre all the time, and he would be happy, especially during the last 4 years of his life, when he had no real appetite. Kristy and Robert came over most Sundays to watch the game, and Gretchen, too, when she was in town. Sometimes Robert brought chili cheese dip that was hot enough to set our tongues on fire. Poppy always took little naps and we went outside to sneak a smoke. I'm deliberately making myself write this down. though my famous tears have started to fall. I don't want Sunday to be just another day - not yet. Shit. I don't know what I want. I know that to pretend Sunday is just another day is wrong. Today is easier than last week. I'll take that. I have golf on TV. but I'm not watching it. I'm writing this instead. Baby steps.