I Was Glad It Rained

I was glad it was raining.

The thick air like damp cool towels on my face

And the Dark sky. . .

the spattering water against the cement factory as we drove by it.

My luggage, once again stowed neatly in the trunk and my mind was like great pale green gauze bandages:

I felt happy as my thoughts, no longer turned to us, to love for love . s sake, or my painful need for you.

Halifax

Sitting, staring, in the same morning robe as a dozen morn-ing robes and coffee cups before, it all came back:

Snow.

The dark city by the Atlantic.

Your bright red hair and your peach mouth. . .

. . . Smiling

and not wanting to look into my eyes for then you might have given something away.

Day

I did not look down upon my adopted city of Los Angeles that morning with

vague

  tepid

    revulsion. . .

The way I so often did in those unwell days from the 737 Jumbo window.

This was new. . .

It was the sun that hit my eyes, maybe like warm soft Junior Mints.

Then I awoke on that day fifty Sundays ago. . .

an Angel in my arms and the blue morning sky smelled like ruthless, clear adventure.

And as I held her, she became my youth

the future,

I was in it.

	© Melt Magazine 2001