I heard it will be raining here next week.
As it has been every weekend of last month
“It never rains in Southern California,” they said
“But when it rains, it pours.”
All day, all week,
sometimes even all month,
like one February, some years ago.
I miss the short rains in Miami-
thunderstorms, our own form of fireworks,
watching it from inside the glass windows,
in the bedroom of our modest house, our first.
Then blazing sunshine,
or nights with whiplashing rains over the roof,
followed by the moonlight filling up the room,
of our little first home.
Things were good and bright,
like the storm had never visited.
I’m learning to let go like the old rain back East.
Though it’s hard, I’m erasing the lingering pain.
I wish all the years would be like the first –
All the rides in our old beaten-up car,
Dinner dates at my work place,
I worked nights and you worked mornings.
But weekends were our pure happiness,
…at least mine.
This morning, thick mist surrounded the windows,
covered the mountain passes when I went to work.
Here is paradise, so they thought.
Despite the everlasting pouring rains,
it’s still more than 300 days of sunshine.
I still miss those damp wet short rains in the past,
I miss it, when we were poor.
I miss it, all the time we lost.