It’s raining in Miami. I’m writing this on a Sunday so I can keep it for later, can gift it to you after the fact. I’m writing it about midway between Miami proper and Fort Lauderdale, along the border of the two counties, and I’m watching the sky commingle with a ground. My balcony garden, mostly herbs, has been unsalvageably droopy, and not for lack of watering. The extra wet may just kill them.
But I’m more enthralled by the soft grey glow from a flat grey sky, by the cool wet air filling my lungs like cotton batting. I’m more in love with the trails of wet dripping down the balcony screen and the sound of cars passing through puddles on the road below.
The green pops. We’ve been without too long.
It’s a light rain, not raucous, not meant for dancing in. If the sky cracked lightning, and the clouds opened on us with volleys of wet bullets, I’d go play, shrieking and cold. But it’s a soft rain. I want to read Ray Bradbury. I want to keep sitting here, worried for my computer in the wet, pseudo-smoking my cigarette (I never inhale; it’s all about the mouth-feel of the smoke, and it’s why a pack will last me 3 months, even with heavy sharing), sipping on my coffee (a greater vice, unbounded, and it will be my undoing). There are tin panels on the apartment roof, and the rain striking is music.
I could drink this. I will record it now to take out later: the cat in my lap despite the damp; the curling smoke; the greening around and below me, lush lush lush. Days like these were meant for living in. I’ll live in it more than once. I’ll invite you, too.