Catching Rain

The rain slows and the song ends but I remain parked on the side of the road. I cannot drive home until my tears have also slowed. When I finally walk through the door of my cozy little house where you have never lived, you somehow feel present. I forgot to leave the radio on and it is hauntingly quiet until our manly Yorkshire terrier, Gus-Gus, wakes up to perform his greeting dance. The sound of his joyful barking and nails tapping on the hardwood floor chases the gloom away. I pick him up and rub his ears before pouring red wine into a small coffee mug on the counter where it has been waiting for the coffee it didn’t receive this morning. Gus snuggles onto my lap as I sit down and wrap my hands around the mug. His gaze is adoring, and I feel like I can trust my world for one lovely moment. I sip slowly and think of how ridiculous it would be for me to continue flooding you with words that you cannot process. I am not even sure you remember who I am or my significance in your life. You smile and seem to recognize me, but I know that you may just be welcoming a friendly face with a happy voice and a cookie. I force myself to acknowledge that whatever images you still hold in your mind, they are no longer painted with words. It is when I sit with you in silence that you now seem to absorb my presence. Silence has become more intimate than talking. If I can remain quiet long enough, you sometimes put your arm around my shoulders or reach over and lace your fingers with mine. You will glance sideways at me without turning your head. If I lock eyes with you, I swear it is a smile of satisfaction that creeps onto your face. Words are not what you need now. They are what I need. I vow to limit the time that I talk out loud to you. Instead, I will fill my quiet evenings talking to you on my computer. This is how I will hold on. When I visit tomorrow, I will say, "I am remembering how I met Mary in the old graveyard behind St. Mary’s church." You won’t understand those words but may grin and say, "Hold on" or "Oh, wow." Then again, you may not respond at all. I will sit with you and rub your feet, maybe help you with lunch, or put in a music video for you to watch and sway to. I might push a ball through the air toward you and encourage you to toss it back. You now prefer to hand it to me rather than throw it, but you instinctively catch it over and over, regardless of which angle or speed it approaches. Your motor skills are intact. When you tire of catching the ball, you will keep it. Setting it down next to you and avoiding my eyes, you will sever our connection like hanging up a telephone. When I get ready to leave, I will bend down in front of you and bring my face close to yours so I can look directly into your eyes. You will smile again. This smile is always more tender than the others. Perhaps you understand I will soon leave you in peace. I always whisper, "I love you, Randy Man. You are the best man I know.” When I kiss your cheek, you often try to kiss me on the mouth. You have mossy teeth now, but I never turn away. I will wave from the doorway again. You won’t wave back because waving is something you no longer do. I begin to think about Mary... Your office on the Northern California coast was located in a historic school building that could no longer meet earthquake and other safety standards for children. They converted the building into professional offices which were then leased to the agency that you worked for. If a group of adult scientists could not escape an earthquake, there are some political or religious groups who might construe this to be a divine form of natural selection. Across the street was a tiny turn-of-the century church that still wore her virginal white paint with pride. It’s double doors once opened wide to welcome the people of that small community. The tall steeple no longer housed the big Brass bell that once beckoned them by ringing out from the hillside and down over the town. It could have been an illustration in a child's storybook. The old church had been closed to services for many years which allowed the silent steeple to become home to a pair of beautiful white-faced barn owls. You introduced me to them one evening when I picked you up for dinner after you had worked late. Every night around dusk, at some secret signal known only to them, they would emerge from their nest inside the bell tower and open their large ghostly wings against the darkening sky to glide out and begin their nightly hunt for mice in the fields close by. Their wings made no detectible sound and it was a hauntingly lovely thing to watch. On an unusually warm summer evening with soft golden light, I decided to set up my tripod and attempt to capture the moment the owls took flight. I got there in plenty of time to select the perfect spot and put everything in place, with the steeple silhouetted against the western sky. Watching the sun slide toward the dunes of the Pacific Ocean in the distance, there was no fog and a few light clouds showed some soft color. It looked like I might also catch sight of a beautiful sunset.