I love the rain. Rainy days and rainy nights. I love the sound of it, the way the air smells clean, and the way it makes me feel cozy staying indoors, which is pretty much where I prefer to be anyway.
For those who haven't heard, we in California are in the grips of a serious drought -- historic, perhaps biblical. It has been, according to scientists, 534 years since this state was as dry as it now is. The people making that assertion based it on measuring the soil, rocks, shells, and other indicators up and down our state, especially along the coast, I presume, where erosion caused by the constant beat of the Pacific's mighty waves, easily expose half a century and more of our geological past for anyone to see, and touch.
Yet, this particular weekend, we are having rain. Glorious rain. It started yesterday and by last night was strong enough that I wore a coat with a hood and a baseball cap as I walked to my car to drive to dinner.
My destination was the house of some old friends, a mile or so from here, halfway from here to the Castro.
Trouble was, my car wouldn't start. The poor old thing, which I bought in December 2003, some 127,000 miles ago, has a fussy battery. Think of it as an old heart, with a leaky valve, leading to arrhythmia. An easy metaphor for me, and also for some of the friends I was hoping to see last night.
Once it was clear the car was dead for the night, I faced a choice. Skip the dinner or make my way there on foot or by bus?
I decided to go. Of course, I got rained on, which was pleasant enough. When I reached the nearest busstop, I asked an off-duty Muni guy what the fare for seniors was. You can see that I rarely ride public transportation. My life consists of driving or walking, until last night.
The guy told me it would cost me $2,500 for a bus ride, then he smiled and said, "for you," it would only be 75 cents.
I knew that, of course, and I had my three quarters at the ready. I can't remember why I even asked him the fare, maybe I just wanted a connection.
Increasingly these days and nights, at this age, I enjoy whatever level of connection I can forge with other humans. It isn't only the instinct and understanding that my time here is growing short -- it is a wish to make the most of whatever time is left.
Part of that is having been with Raul as he died. Witnessing his fear of death and his desperate hope for more time. His hope was not granted.
For that, you would be fair to conclude there is no God, because if there was, Raul would still be here, and would have had many more of the moments he desired. There was no good reason for his death. No explanation. No truth.
Just the random distribution of death dice. The dyes of death; that's what I consider them. It could be you, and it could be me. It could be any of us. It will ultimately be all of us.
***
Today, as I stood in the soft rain waiting for someone to show up and jump-start my car's heart, I noticed oil on water by the curb. Thus the photo at the top of this post.
Here is another photo. Of my youngest daughter with two friends just a blink of the eye ago. Excited. Ringing a doorbell.
Today that little girl is a young woman, 15 years old. I picked her up from her volunteer job at the SPCA mid-day, and when we got home I could tell she was restless. I recognized that particular type of restlessness, from raising five previous teenagers. It is the moment when you really, really want to start growing up -- to become an adult on your own terms.
A couple of hours later, she put on her coat and grabbed her purse and said she was going out for a walk -- in the rain.
I asked of she would like me to go with her but she shook her head and said "That's okay."
So I stayed here. Of course, you always worry about your youngest child when she reaches the point she has to strike out on her own. Especially when you live in an inner-city neighborhood where someone gets shot every other day, someone else gets assaulted, and someone else gets hit by a car.
But if you love your child, you have to let her go, and truthfully, this is not such a bad place in daylight.
She stayed out for a while and when she came home she had a Starbucks coffee in her hand. "I want to try and learn how to like coffee," she told me. "But this tastes awful."
We worked on it.
She added some milk and some sugar. I suggested some chocolate.
Eventually she drank the whole thing. I didn't say a word, but silently applauded my youngest child for her foray into adulthood. I'm quite sure by the time she reaches college (four years from now) she will be a seasoned coffee drinker.
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