coaxing a thunderstorm from memory
��������� �����being the first one in the showers, before anyone else uses them, before the area is damp and sodden with the fog of others, is a beautiful thing. the unblemished tile, the dry shelf - the way that the curtain pulls all the way across the rod without any unmanageable tendencies - turning the nozzle on and then going out for a moment, or to just sit and breathe in the steam ..it's a beautiful thing.
yesterday morning someone had spilled a pocketful of pennies on the bathroom floor, which is tiled. it looked like they had been trying to play Go. the window was closed and the doors to the stalls make a loud, protesting groan when you open or close them. the shift and tug of night, the sudden simple pang of homesickness.
(sitting on the deck just before the storm. dark sky. trees with inverted leaves. a rush of wind. and a single drop of rain .. so much like a kiss)
water.
and now, snow. seems as though the past has crystallized and now blankets my entire region. so much of my life depends upon the weather. growing up, i'd wake to the sounds of the soft, muted jazz of the local forecast. the michelin commercials. the green and pink spatters of precipitation on the map. and then, off to something else.
like now.