I feel a little lost, a little little, like a plastic army man or a bee. I whisper “shit” under my breath, grip my umbrella like a life preserver and dive, head first, into wet. It is then my umbrella snaps backward, shifting violently with the wind. I just want to catch the damn bus; I think this while I snatch the edge of my umbrella with my open hand and tug. The wind whips at my cheeks. Cars honk. I cross. The bus zooms into nowhere. For a moment, just a moment, I am absolutely pissed at the world. Ten minutes pass. I find sanctuary in a bus seat caked with gum.
Rainy days in Boston are unusually gloomy. Here, if it’s raining, it’s probably cold. And if it’s not cold, well, it’s definitely not sunny. Today, it is cold and it is raining. And if you look out your window and see gray, my advice: check the weather forecast. Boston weather is fickle. Gray skies may imply a chill, but it is not always so; it can be gray and it can be hot.
No rain boots today. The wind is bearable. I walk out the door in jeans, a tee, a sweater, and my temperamental black umbrella that I fixed a few days prior. I pray the rain and wind stay light.
On rainy days like this, I feel 12. The world is a scary place, unpredictable and often sad. I recollect the books I read when I was young, the poetry that weathered hurricanes, family deaths, and a move that spanned almost 1500 miles. The poem below is one my grandmother, Elayne, often read to me before bed.
by Robert Louis Stevenson
Words of the Week (to be attempted at least once today in conversation)