I had been looking forward to having been born in the
summer for the first time in my life, but as I wake up,
it's pouring down. So I don't.
It's not like I can think of anything I'd like to do,
anyway. I got a little cleaning and organizing done
last night, which is a much better present than going
through any kind of celebratory motions. I have come to
appreciate being in control of one's own happiness, but
this I think is one day when it should be someone
else's job.
I'm old enough to know for certain that just passing of
time isn't enough to cure what is childish in me.
I dawdle at home until the rain lets up, thinking of my
grandmother singing to me over the phone: a moment of
silence on the line, and then her familiar song. If I'm
already down, there's no harm in trying to recreate her
graceful voice in my mind as I follow the melody. In
the course of the day, it grows vivid enough I can be
grateful for not forgetting yet.
Or, flowers from Atlas, almost equally unlikely but
this one I do manage to convince myself of for a
second. (Because these are the kind of wonders that
happen in my life whenever it's not going to hell in a
handbasket. Because I dreamt about it once, and after
our strange near miss in June, I may or may not have
been telling myself now every other dream I've ever had
of him will eventually happen. It's a pity I never did
finish writing about either of these, but 'you' are
just me anyway, so let this be your reminder.) The
noise in the hallway of course turns out to be just
neighbors.
The gamble paid off, though, and it's not actively
pouring down anymore as I walk to the library, even if
the weather is still disgusting. Grant application took
another several steps forwards, and whether it's what
I'd genuinely wish to be doing, the false conviction is
one antidote for this funk. The quiet company of people
is the next best thing.
