All day it has been raining a fine drizzle. If rain could be compared to soil–and it can’t, for one is movement, while the other is stationary–I would say the drizzle is like tilth. Titlth is a gorgeous word, that describes a fine-grain soil, black with growth and vital. And this thin drizzle that has been flooding the fields is as potent. There were moments today when it threatened to sleet, and briefly, began to snow in stinging hail-pelt. So much weather yet none of it very threatening, just constant. A sou’wester turned into a nor’easter, a friend said. It is getting stronger as the wind rises. The rain beats on the screens.
I dream one day of writing a big book, but I wonder if I even want to or if it is just a dream I am used to having. I think one writes because one is compelled. Here I am, typing, the Korean drama I am watching on tv paused, as the wind and rain play with each other outside. If I could, I would write a story about my cat, who was abandonned as a pregnant youngster in the Bronx, at a vet’s office, and rescued to Cape Cod, where I sheltered her and her four kittens for a while as she nursed them. Three kittens were adopted, my heart breaking each time, but one stayed with me, along their mother. Now my cat is ailing, and a slew of symptoms accost her. Luckily, her kitten, who is now nearly ten, is fine, strengthened I think by the very fine milk she provided her for at least four months, if not longer. How my cat loved to nurse, and how my kitten loved to eat. So that is the story I would write, not knowing the ending.
Indira Ganesan 