The promised rains never came. I waited all month long, crawling along weather apps and forecast websites, searching for a glimmer of relief from the bright sunshine and high temperatures. I struggled to stay asleep at night and finally bought new sheets with the same rose print and texture of my favorite cotton blends I remember from Bombay Dyeing. This helps a little.
Sometimes, the app promised rain, hours long, long enough for me to fall asleep. The rains, though, whenever they came, thrashed about for an hour or so and fled. They also came when I was locked in my windowless writing center, where I spend shadow-less, sky-less hours, oblivious to any changes in the endless, parched blue. By the time I emerged, the rains would have long left and the ground dry.
We just heard some thunder a few minutes ago and looked at each other dubiously, wondering if and wishing that the rain would outlast our working hours and lull us to sleep. The rains have been promised all weekend long.
I just shrug. Let's see.
The hurricane season begins on June 1. I do not wish for hurricanes. I am too old to weather another one. There is no real way to feather one's nest so that one's well-being and sense of safety may be sustained through the aftermath of a hurricane. At the very least, extreme discomfort and debilitating confusion always follow such devastation. Electricity always fails and the world grinds to a stop. I wake up to some primordial landscape with the stars and satellites being the only light sources, and insects buzz and bite incessantly.
That said, I must confess to needing a good storm. I want the storm to be strong enough to quench the unrelieved days but not strong enough to knock off the lights. I do so hate sewing and reading by candlelight. But a good storm would also give me a good night's sleep. Indeed, if it arrives on a Friday evening, I can sleep through till late Saturday. On Saturday morning, I could gulp down enough water so I am slaked for the week.
My workday is still more than a couple of hours shy of being done. The thunder seems to have been replaced by the hum of the A/C. I am sure that all signs of moisture will have dried up by the time I walk out.
If there are no tell-tale pawprints on my living room floor when I reach home, I will know that at least the cats enjoyed the afternoon rains by napping deeply near the open window, on cool cotton blends printed with restful promises.