Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

I was torn.

It was 3AM, and I was torn between sleep and listening to an old friend. We hadn’t talked, hadn’t seen each other for 50 days, and for us, that’s a long time. Usually, hardly a week goes by without at least a chat. Sometimes we’ll lose track of the days and, especially in the summer, a month will pass us both, but soon, we always meet up. We might meet on the street, or when I’m out in the gardens, or, like today, I look out the window and realize my friend is out there.

It had been so long since last I’d heard from my friend, I fought back the sleep, and listened.

Fifty days is a long spate to go without rain in Seattle. I watched the radar and saw green blobs crop up but pass us by all day. Last night, I smelled it on the wind. And then, at 3AM, I awoke and heard the blessed susurrus of the rain hissing through the conifers, tapping on the dogwood leaves, trickling down the gutterpipes, dribbling into the catchbasin.

I knew it wouldn’t last long—the first rain of late summer never does—so I indulged myself and lay there, felt my heart beat, and listened to the murmurings of an old friend.

Eventually, I slept, and when I awoke, blue sky had returned above, though the trees still dripped with moisture. Clouds out along the shore promise showers for some, a cool day for most, and provide a memory of our first taste of autumn. Already, some of the trees have decided to start packing it in. The ash is all red berries and few leaves, the sumac is trying on some warmer colors—scarlet, orange—and a few of the maples have begun to blush from the cooler nights.

It won’t be fifty days before we speak again, the rain and I.

k