Houston’s Wettest Summer

The rain hammered outside, hitting the top of my neighbor’s tin roof. This made it louder—more annoying and frightening—than if it were falling on the ground.

It must have been 3am, since the rain roused me from a deep sleep, the kind that is a pure blackout, where any and all memories, thoughts, feelings cease to exist. I thought, This is a special kind of feeling that is accessed infrequently. Thoughts filtered through my mental fog, some held back by the fog and others lucky enough to make it through, albeit at different intensities. From the fragments of mental incantations that came through an imaginary boundary, I formed a hazy picture, and I filled in the blanks where I could. I went back to sleep.

I woke up with the assurance that it was an acceptable time to wake up and start the day since, through my window, I could see that it was light outside, by which I mean the minimal amount that escaped from perennial cloud cover, that indicated that somewhere above perennial cloud cover hung a bright and warm sun.

When it comes to the rain clouds, I no longer gripe depressingly. At worst, I anger and grumble, writing so that I may appease the curmudgeon hermiting inside of me. But at best I look at the clouds and ignore them. (To avoid looking at the clouds is impossible, especially when one is confined to their home.)

Yes, today I looked at the cloud cover and the interminable precipitation, and ignored them.

I’m glad I did because when the rain stopped and the sun came out, and the blue sky peeked out at some of heaven’s points, I was filled with the simplest and softest joy.



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