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it rains inside today.
literally.

the roof is leaking.

again.

the third time isn’t always the charm,
as we now know.
hubbie’s blown off the roof three times,
hoping, hoping, hoping
that would remedy it.

but it didn’t.

///

over on facebook, terri st. cloud bestows “a thousand points” on me for professing my determination to treat this inside rainstorm as creative fodder. even if i knew where to cash those 1k points in, i wouldn’t. i need all the fortification i can get today.

///

i try to make something of this,
try to find meaning,
significance,
a drop of humor would be fantastic,
but so far,
that’s the one dry spot in my life today.

///

we have a small kitchen – which is fine given that i do not like to cook – but that means there aren’t nearly enough pots and bowls to go around as collection basins. let a drop hit a ceramic bowl, and it splashes and splatters, sharing its wetness far outside the edges of the bowl. let a drop hit a plastic storage bowl (when i do cook, i like to cook in quantity for the leftover value), and it makes a lightness of sound or a decided thunk, depending.

drops falling into the metal pots let their presence be known, creating a veritable parade with their arrival.

i make music
from the rhythmic
drops of water
pouring in from the ceiling:
thack
thunk
plink
plank
plank
when a drop hits the towel he spread out,
there’s a deadened plop.
not much personality there
if you ask me.
it is a symphony of sound,
this rain falling on the inside,
not my favorite kind of music,
granted,
but it is
and so i deal with it.

the dog, who happens to prefer a fresh bowl, considers this great, huge fun.

the cats, at first intrigued, bore quickly.

///

we are down to vases now.

///

i try to think of it as a zen garden.
i am not successful.

i say to msyelf,
“at least it’s not
thundering and lightning
on the inside,”
my self is not amused.

///

it does turn things inside out, that’s for sure, and were i more like my mother and her mother, i’d have lots of happy plants now, gleeful to be receiving real rain instead of water from the faucet.

watching for the drops is like looking for a rainbow, i decide, and i can’t quite stop the smile when i see that elongated flash of light zooming past me at the speed of gravity. i am surprised at how something that conjures images of clean and fresh, something that looks like a streak of mirror on its way down, looks so reddish brown in the container.

one big drop lands and immediately breaks into many smaller droplets causing me to imagine that raindrops forced off their natural course mate with beautiful cherry hardwood floor to create families. (prolific mating, i hasten to add.)

///

i shift into experimental mode and rip strips of soft white cloth to put inside the basins. will they dry beautifully stained? maybe they’ll become prayer flags. maybe they’ll become part of a larger cloth. maybe they’ll be woven together with other clothes to create a textile landscape. i am surprised (and maybe even a wee bit saddened) when the thunking stops as raindrops, that can feel like small torpedos as they fall, hit the soft strip of cloth silently. it is thin cloth, quickly saturated, yet its softness, its ability to catch and hold quietly and tenderly, remains.

///

is it significant
that the inside rainstorm
is right in front of the door,
i wonder.
and i set about
trying to
make something of that.

my determined creative fire
is impervious to water.

i have often said that i hope that before i die, i’ll live in a house with a sound roof. i am saying it again today. repeatedly.

what is it about a leaky roof
that unsettles me so?
obviously
there’s something
i’m supposed to learn
because
it’s been a while
since i’ve
lived under a roof
that didn’t leak.

what am i missing?

what am i supposed to learn?

where is the metaphor in all this?

///

the funny thing about a leaky roof is that where the rain first enters isn’t necessarily (or usually, for that matter) where it seeps through the ceiling. rain can slip past the roof at one end of the house and find its way through the ceiling at the other end of the house.
it meanders,
this detoured rain water.
there’s no direct route,
no logical, shortest route,
no concern for making good time.

///

he gets home early,
the husband does.
i think he’s come
to fix the roof.
“i got laid off today,” he says.
and the ceiling
hits the floor.

~~~~~~~

Note: This actually happened yesterday, but there were children to call, emails to send, reeling to do last night.