Endless dreary rain.
It was more interesting when it was raging down like a monsoon. Now it’s just limitless, piddling, annoying dismal dripping.
The sky is dishwater, the ground coffee grounds under the sink. The sodden leaves weigh down the branches, and the trees slump like mourners. The birds sleep in.
The ground is sated, and more. Every little seam and pinhole in the basement weeps the water flung on the ground outside a week ago. It’s an assault, but the worst kind; a siege, slowly but inexorably finding the weakness in your subterranean parapets. The sump pump has become the central theme in my life.
There’s often a marvelous moment, late at night, when it first starts to rain. You’re warm and comfortable, it’s late or early, and the rain, gone for too long, reappears with a little sizzle on the windowsill, and then the steady drops drum on the roof, and you drowse and dream of creek, the river, the ocean.
That’s ten days ago. Now the sound of the rain is like the tramp of an occupying force, implacable, smothering, brutal and cold.
The windowboxes are aquariums. The toads drown in the window wells. the mosquitos hatch, and hatch their plots for the summer, when they will remind us of the awful rain long after it’s gone and we miss it.
The grass is as green as Cambodia. Water glints through the underbrush, reflecting the dull sky from the most unlikely places. It seems like it will never end.
And sure as age, and death, and taxes, and the turning of the earth and the rising of the sun, on the day it’s over, I’ll get a postcard from the town, announcing the water ban.