The rain has come. I wake in the night when the sudden cold breath of it slides over my skin, stumble out of bed to the window, then to the closet for the down comforter stashed away all summer. In the morning I lie long in bed, listening to the swish
of car tires on the wet road, listening for the sounds of splatter and drip. All I can hear is the cars.
I came here in January, the land firmly in winter's grasp. I'd come before, exploratory trips, the January and November before. I had never seen this land without a mantle of snow. I loved it.
Spring eviscerated me. Spring pulled my guts out through my eyes and handed them back, all with a pretty smile. I held my hands out gratefully, greedily, smeared myself with blood. Everyday the world turned greener, until I was glad to have no eyes; everyday my heart beat stronger, pouring out the open places, drinking in the green. I loved it. There was rain then, too. There was rain all summer, in fits and bursts, in big storms and showers. Summer gave me a chance to get all my organs back in the right places, sew myself up tight. My skin reknit over the wounds of spring as the land settled back into a spectrum I understood, as the miracle of growth became mundane.
My calendar so far looks like this: Sledding, Sledding, Fiddleheads, Ramps
, Dandelions, Fireflies, Swimming, Tomatoes, Canning, and Leaves. (I know I should probably have different names for January and February. Maybe next year.) I'm looking forward to learning November and December. I'm looking forward to the time when we can buy a forest house, and I will hear more than tires in the rain.