Oh, but it’s raining. So, I think I’m just gonna stay in bed.
Yes. It’s raining.
No, not just drizzling, in a typical fashion of LA-LA’s summers, when a few dirty raindrops smear the layer of dust on the windshields and rooftops of our cars; and for the rest of that week, we all drive in polka-dotted vehicles, too superstitious to wash them. Because the law of LA-LA-Land is such: Washing a car — brings on new rain. The drizzling type of rain. The rain that smears the layers of dust on the windshields and rooftops of our cars.
But today: It’s raining.
Now, I wouldn’t call it “pouring”, for I have seen some of the worst rainstorms, in other spots along the planet. I’ve seen the traffic stall in Moscow, its yellow cabs glistening with rain while their drivers, numbed into indifference by common despair, would pull off to the sides of the road and wait out the chaos. And I have witnessed the swamps that rain makes out of Russian villages, like the birth place of my father; and the people would make portable bridges with loose planks of wood to walk across endless puddles of rainwater and mud. Because Motha Russia is notorious for its unkept roads: She is too enormous — to upkeep.
And I have seen the New York Subways shut down entirely, flooded overnight with aftershocks of a storm going much further south. I have walked along the black-clad New Yorkers, obeying the barely comprehensible instructions over the groveling radio; so that we could take the bus shuttles, already overcrowded, above the ground. And I watched them endure — the owners of those magnificently strong hearts — and they rarely complained. Because that City — is not meant for weaklings. In the last decade, that City has learned to persevere past unthinkable tragedies. So, what’s a little rainstorm — to warriors?
The most nonchalant characteristic of San Franciscans — is their readiness for the whims of weather. I have been amazed before to watch their instantaneous transformation into rain-ready attire, as soon as the first heavy raindrops give them a warning. Sometimes, it’s just a few minutes of rain. Other times, the precipitation comes down violently and all at once, as if dumped onto their heads by buckets of an impatient laundress.
And then, it passes. It always passes: The San Francisco blue. And when the sun peaks out of the gray layer, suddenly the streets are filled with girls in summer frocks and boys in flip flops. How ever do they do that: The exceptional residents of their exceptional city?
But today, it’s raining — in LA-LA.
Oh yes! It’s raining!
I heard it, early in the morning, when I woke up amazed at my uninterrupted night of sleep. There were no nightmares today. In my bed, I wasn’t missing my beloveds. Neither was I stuck with my chronic prophetic visions, on their behalf. Neither did I catch myself dreaming. No. Today, I rested, lullabied into the sleep of the just — the sleep of the fulfilled — by the drumbeat of heavy raindrops, outside.
And when I first opened my eyes this morning, I thought:
“Oh, but it’s raining! So, I think I’m just gonna stay in bed.”
But then, I looked outside.
The windows appeared streaked, and the pattern of the settled down moisture reminded me of other windows I had looked through, in other spots, along the planet.
I have watched the water cascading down the tiny windows of my grandmother, in a house she had moved to, as a widow. She would arise early, to tend to her livestock (and whatever other magical business she couldn’t help but conduct). But before leaving her tiny wooden house, she would sit in front of a poorly isolated window and unbraid her long, graying hair. Unleashed, the hair would fall below her waistline; and she would hum, and she would sigh, while running an ivory-colored tooth comb brush, up from her temples and down to the knees. She could’ve been a siren — a mermaid — playing a harp for her long awaited lover. For surely, there had to be some magical business she wouldn’t help but conduct!
The windowpanes of our apartment in Eastern Germany would leak, quite often, when rainstorms came to town. Motha would fuss. She would dig out all the old towels from underneath our tub, divide and distribute them along our windowsills. Flabbergasted, she would eventually storm out of the house — “to fix her ruined manicure” — and leave me with the task of wringing out the drenched cloths, until dad would arrive home, to help.
And when he did, the blue of the day would suddenly depart, and we would have an adventure: stuffing all the cracks with putty and cotton, covering them with tape. Motha would return to find our windows sweating from the inside, and the two of us — flushed, soaked in rainwater and giggling.
“Well!” she’d command over us. “I guess I’ll be in the kitchen — slaving over soups.”
And we would pretend to help, but only until motha’s blues would depart, and she would start howling with her very specific laughter.
I would do the same trick at my Riverdale basement apartment, for three years. I would use it as an excuse to make pots and cauldrons of soups, and play house, for a while. I would scrawl down my speed dial to check which one of my beloveds was nearby — and hungry. And I would wait for their very specific laughter to steam up my windowpanes, from the inside.
Ah. But it’s raining today.
Yes, it’s raining — in LA-LA.
And I think it’s just the perfect day — to stay in bed.