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09-05-2005, 11:44 PM

A friend of mine wrote this. I've always sort of liked it and I think it applies here too.

You'd think after all these years, and there are more of them gone by than I care to count anymore, I'd be used to this. The sun not quite being up, that I've grown used to and even like most days. I've always liked the dark and predawn darkness, with just a hint of the shadows lessoning, outlines of the dresser and all the picture frames on top of it, memories sweet and fond in each and everyone, the perfume bottles and a lifetimes worth or knick knacks just starting to gain an outline, all coming back to life with the burgeoning day. Even on a day like this one, where I know the clouds won't be breaking up, the sun won't truly break through them, the rain, a light unceasing patter, will rule this place and time. The girl next to me, funny I still think of her as a girl though she's been a woman for far longer than anyone would guess, she's so beautiful that I still see her as the girl I met so long ago, still sleeping soundly, hand slightly curled on the pillow next to her head, palm up and a couple of stray strands of curly hair wrapped around her fingers, tangled there as I've seen them countless times before. Gently I reach across and unwrap them so she won't pull it and wake herself up, as I have so many times that it has become almost a ritual.

I want to enjoy these first few minutes of the day starting, just the cat and I watching, the black clouds gradually lighten and turn grey, dark and heavy and so close that it looks like they'll get caught up in the branches of the oaks or spear themselves on the pinetrees that dot the hillside just beyond us. A sudden burst of rain hard and fast against the roof like a thousand squirrels chasing a thousand fallen acorns from end to end across our house, ten thousand tiny pitter patters in less than a minute and it's gone, replaced by the more somber cadence of a gentle mother cleaning her child after a day spent playing outside, a swish and hiss and slow brushing of the water on our house, rythmically arythmic, repeating the same sounds but never in the same order. I almost fall back asleep just looking out the big bay window, watching the clouds trudging along, heavy and thick while I'm snug and protected, feeling like a kid myself under the big blue comforter, wrapped around the girl, the woman, the best part of the morning, the best girl in the world, like I am every morning, the luckiest man that ever was, but the rain, as it always has, has captured me, snared me like a fish in a net, fully able to see his captor and totally unable to do ought but proceed as he always has, and so I lay there, watching and listening to the day come back to life once again, the gentle breathing of the girl a soothing counterpoint to the wind which has gentled now, urging genltly instead of hurling madly, the rain up against the window, the drops doing the last dance of their short existances, running, sliding, slipping down the glass in ones and twos and threes, becoming little verticle rivers, branches dividing and joining over and over with neither rhyme nor reason, frantic to become only they know what, before they join with the earth once again, to begin the long wait until, once again, they can become raindrops and become part of the dance, the very rythum, the breath of life itself.

But sleep is not to return, as it often promises to but never does, and neither of us, not sleep nor myself, are surprised or disappointed that our long standing relationship has fulfilled itself one more time. The girl next to me, curls more disarrayed than before, hand now under her cheek, stretches long and luxuriously, straightens out her slender form, still glued to mine as it has been all these many many mornings we've woken side by side, takes a deep breath and without ever opening her eyes snuggles back against me, curling her legs up and wiggling her bottom up against me, pulling my arm back around her waist, its normal resting place, holding both her and the well-worn and faded blue flannel shirt she's used as a nightgown so long, and sighs deep and contented that all is well in her world, knowing full well that I'll be there, watching the raindrops dance and listening to the wind through the branches and boughs outside singing to us here in our wamth and comfort, knowing that there is no where else in the world that I would rather be than right here right now gently curled about the girl, the woman, I've woken next to so many times before and in such blissful happiness that there really could be no other way to begin any day other than this.

The chimes gong in the wind, reminding me of the church bells heard so long ago in childhood, soothing and smooth, deeply sonorus, felt as much as heard and contributing to the feeling of rightness with the world. The sights, the sounds, the gentle breathing of the girl next to me, how could one man be so lucky? It's a question I often ask, but only to myself, never out loud. No one could possibly have an answer for that and I don't really want one. It is and that's good enough for me. It has been all these long years and there is no reason for that to change. No reason at all. The rain agrees and continues its gentle downpour. The wind agrees and continues it's gentle blowing through bough and branch, its gentle touch singing in the voice of the chimes hung around the house. All is well, here snug under the big blue comforter with the slender curly haired girl sleeping so gently in my arms, all is well.

Don't you wish it was raining?

09-05-2005, 11:44 PM	#2
Wilomn	A friend of mine wrote this. I've always sort of liked it and I think it applies here too. You'd think after all these years, and there are more of them gone by than I care to count anymore, I'd be used to this. The sun not quite being up, that I've grown used to and even like most days. I've always liked the dark and predawn darkness, with just a hint of the shadows lessoning, outlines of the dresser and all the picture frames on top of it, memories sweet and fond in each and everyone, the perfume bottles and a lifetimes worth or knick knacks just starting to gain an outline, all coming back to life with the burgeoning day. Even on a day like this one, where I know the clouds won't be breaking up, the sun won't truly break through them, the rain, a light unceasing patter, will rule this place and time. The girl next to me, funny I still think of her as a girl though she's been a woman for far longer than anyone would guess, she's so beautiful that I still see her as the girl I met so long ago, still sleeping soundly, hand slightly curled on the pillow next to her head, palm up and a couple of stray strands of curly hair wrapped around her fingers, tangled there as I've seen them countless times before. Gently I reach across and unwrap them so she won't pull it and wake herself up, as I have so many times that it has become almost a ritual. I want to enjoy these first few minutes of the day starting, just the cat and I watching, the black clouds gradually lighten and turn grey, dark and heavy and so close that it looks like they'll get caught up in the branches of the oaks or spear themselves on the pinetrees that dot the hillside just beyond us. A sudden burst of rain hard and fast against the roof like a thousand squirrels chasing a thousand fallen acorns from end to end across our house, ten thousand tiny pitter patters in less than a minute and it's gone, replaced by the more somber cadence of a gentle mother cleaning her child after a day spent playing outside, a swish and hiss and slow brushing of the water on our house, rythmically arythmic, repeating the same sounds but never in the same order. I almost fall back asleep just looking out the big bay window, watching the clouds trudging along, heavy and thick while I'm snug and protected, feeling like a kid myself under the big blue comforter, wrapped around the girl, the woman, the best part of the morning, the best girl in the world, like I am every morning, the luckiest man that ever was, but the rain, as it always has, has captured me, snared me like a fish in a net, fully able to see his captor and totally unable to do ought but proceed as he always has, and so I lay there, watching and listening to the day come back to life once again, the gentle breathing of the girl a soothing counterpoint to the wind which has gentled now, urging genltly instead of hurling madly, the rain up against the window, the drops doing the last dance of their short existances, running, sliding, slipping down the glass in ones and twos and threes, becoming little verticle rivers, branches dividing and joining over and over with neither rhyme nor reason, frantic to become only they know what, before they join with the earth once again, to begin the long wait until, once again, they can become raindrops and become part of the dance, the very rythum, the breath of life itself. But sleep is not to return, as it often promises to but never does, and neither of us, not sleep nor myself, are surprised or disappointed that our long standing relationship has fulfilled itself one more time. The girl next to me, curls more disarrayed than before, hand now under her cheek, stretches long and luxuriously, straightens out her slender form, still glued to mine as it has been all these many many mornings we've woken side by side, takes a deep breath and without ever opening her eyes snuggles back against me, curling her legs up and wiggling her bottom up against me, pulling my arm back around her waist, its normal resting place, holding both her and the well-worn and faded blue flannel shirt she's used as a nightgown so long, and sighs deep and contented that all is well in her world, knowing full well that I'll be there, watching the raindrops dance and listening to the wind through the branches and boughs outside singing to us here in our wamth and comfort, knowing that there is no where else in the world that I would rather be than right here right now gently curled about the girl, the woman, I've woken next to so many times before and in such blissful happiness that there really could be no other way to begin any day other than this. The chimes gong in the wind, reminding me of the church bells heard so long ago in childhood, soothing and smooth, deeply sonorus, felt as much as heard and contributing to the feeling of rightness with the world. The sights, the sounds, the gentle breathing of the girl next to me, how could one man be so lucky? It's a question I often ask, but only to myself, never out loud. No one could possibly have an answer for that and I don't really want one. It is and that's good enough for me. It has been all these long years and there is no reason for that to change. No reason at all. The rain agrees and continues its gentle downpour. The wind agrees and continues it's gentle blowing through bough and branch, its gentle touch singing in the voice of the chimes hung around the house. All is well, here snug under the big blue comforter with the slender curly haired girl sleeping so gently in my arms, all is well. Don't you wish it was raining?