22 February 2015
a rainy day in fremont
I recently came upon these old photos of a rainy day in Fremont.
From when? September? November? It could have been either.
Well, I remember this. In Seattle, you become accustomed to the rain. You begin to hardly notice it -- as if it's become a part of yourself, something you've accepted -- like having toes, or fingernails or ears. It just is. But, stormy, wild rain -- you do notice that.
And on this day, I got caught in an utter torrential weeping of the sky. Some of the rainiest rain I've been in. And I have been aching for rain. I was completely beside myself, practically weeping along with it. I let myself (and the strap of my camera, my shoes) get drenched, moving slow like honey to a nearby coffee shop.
I was in no hurry.
By the time I arrived, placed my order, found a window seat -- I could surely wring a glassful of water from my hair. I was ratty in the rattiest, loveliest way.
And moving to the desert will do that to you -- being apart from the rain. It will make you thirsty for it, achingly, indelibly. It's a symptom of growing up with the rain -- accepting it, as it were, like any other body part, any small fraction of self -- but it's like this: the soft reminder that you are, in fact, still human. You exist. The rain can wet your skin. It can weigh down your hair and your clothes, it can ruin your shoes. Can you feel it? Yes, yes -- resoundingly, yes! -- you can.