There is nothing like you after a long run, a cold morning, a late night. Even better outside and unexpected. You bring me comfort. You wake me. You shake me from a funk.
I remember you in Brooklyn, testing the patience of those around me. While I sauntered along the sidewalk, my neighbors grumbled about forgetting their umbrellas. Those were late days of summer, and my love for NYC was just settling in.
You bring me comfort.
I remember you on a hike in Costa Rica. You started soft and then poured like an open faucet, throwing branches down, trapping our truck in the mud and soaking us to the bone. We celebrated our escape with cerveza and joy.
You wake me.
I remember you last month, after a difficult night at home with teenage girls and a tired husband. You let me sit on your floor and kept your heat on me, ten twenty thirty minutes gone by until I could emerge.
You shake me from a funk.
When I was young, I didn’t like you inside or out. You were annoying and necessary. But I have found a new love for the privilege of spending time in you. You have listened to songs sung, watched as lovers loved, and changed countless moods. One year, you even cleared the granite steps by the Brooklyn Bridge so my husband could propose to me in private. My gratitude for you is endless now.
Mist, drip, rain, deluge… oh, showers!