I wish I could describe the fine quality of the rain that is descending now where I live. It is like mist, except with a gravitational pull. It is rain but seemingly not made of raindrops. On the puddles, by the time the water lands, it is in fact droplets, but in the air, the rain is like the softest texture imaginable. No, that’s not right, because there are softer textures, finer textures, like silken rice flour, or a baby’s cheek. But this rain, this mist pouring down, in May, is unlike any of the other rains I’ve witnessed on the Cape.
My life here ebbs and flows. It puddles, as I ready to enter the homestretch with the final copyedits of my book. I wonder why I made the choices I did, I wonder how it is I got here, but then, there is the rain. The horses must be inside. A friend is gathering dirt for her garden beds. Soon, it will be Memorial Day and time to plant. All week, if the rain mist lets up, it is time to plant, after the new moon Sunday. There, the sky is already brightening. My cosmos in their egg crate cups are spindling towards the hidden sun, ready to anchor.