I’ve been lied to before. Some lies hurt more than others. I’m afraid that the dreams I’m sleeping on tonight will turn into a waking nightmare, that it too will be a lie.
I have been told that it should rain in the morning. I am beside myself with anticipation.
Technically, it is today if you live out east (or beyond). I am west. I am dry.
The past two days haven’t gone above 70, which has been nice, but seriously, other than a few whispers passing as sprinkles, we haven’t had rain since early spring. Real early. That’s too long.
I moved to California from Seattle. I was accustomed to a bit of moisture from time to time, and I’ve got to tell you, my skin was fantastic. Now I get people calling PETA on me, they think I’m wearing a dead lizard on my body. I am chapped from lips to hide.
Rainday. It’s a freaking holiday as far as I’m concerned. The kids and I are going to dress-up in costumes of slick jackets and goofy hats. We are going to take empty pails into the pouring treats and catch all we can carry before it leaves as some cruel trick.
I have plans to stand in it. I will stand in it and be cold and wet and happy. People will stare at me and smile and when our eyes meet across roads flooded with running water they will say, “Happy Rainday,” and I will reply, “yes, and to you and yours!”
At some point we’ll return inside, to dry off and watch it fall through empty windows streaked with fresh drops against the last remains of summer. Old-timers will tell stories about the rain back before the war and the hills they faced as kids on walks to places they can’t remember. But they never forget the rain, because forgetting it would be the same as saying that it never existed, and that is a lie that no one should live with.
It’s Rainday Eve, and I want to wake up happy.