Light is precious in a world so dark. Kate DeCamillo
It rained on your birthday, the first one after you died. And again on the anniversary of the night you left us. The skies unloading as if they were mourning with me.
There’s something comforting about rain, no matter how dark it makes the sky or how hard it pounds the roof. Maybe it’s the way it surrounds the house, creating a cocoon that protects me from the worst of the pain, as Buster and I curl up together, watching reruns of The Office while I pretend to get some work done. Maybe it’s the way it seems to smooth the edges of my grief when I wake up early to the sound of the rain on the balcony. Maybe it’s the way the water blurs the world, streaming down the windows, making it hard to see the harsh reality that you aren’t here.
Lying in bed in the black hour before dawn, it doesn’t seem possible that you aren’t asleep in your room, surrounded by penguins, with Brian guarding you, keeping you safe. The rain removes the silence. I couldn’t hear you upstairs even if I wanted to, which only adds to the illusion.
Looking out the window, I can just barely make out the trees full of night, their leaves dancing, their branches swaying in the wind. I can hear the water in the dry creek bed flowing through the yard, rushing away into the darkness.
I have always been a sunshine girl. Blue skies, warm sun, long days. But I love the rain now. It’s a gift to the parched earth, and a reminder that sometimes you have no choice but to dance in the rain. To look for the beauty in the dark skies and wet world and remember that the light is coming.