Rain

Rain is pouring steadily into the streets, gushing down into the sewers that are not clogged with dead leaves and go-cups. If I inhale deeply, standing just inside the door next to Fain, I think that I can smell damp coneflower and clover and sweet olive and white berry. Some of the scents are mildly acidic, green and earthy, while others are thick and sweet. During the rain, they seem to maintain a balance that isn’t possible on hot days. When the sun prevails, the sweet odors are over-powering. That sounds pleasant, but garbage has a sickeningly sweet odor. And there is a lot of garbage in New Orleans. A rainy day in New Orleans reminds me of rainy days anywhere else. Peaceful. Sensual. The breezes that pass over my arms are barely perceptible fingers that squeezed through walls of humidity, weak and exhausted, tiny traces of coolness. The air just outside the door is warm and thick and presses against any exposed skin like sweaty palms covered in melted candy. And the sounds are soothing. It’s easy enough to imagine that I’m hearing a multitude of identical raindrops, but, in truth, each raindrop makes its own unique sound as it strikes larger or smaller leaves, Japanese magnolia or live oak or Confederate jasmine, concrete or asphalt or wood or plastic. Some raindrops are brisk and staccato. Others are large; they smack like swollen lips when they land. The leaves that droop just outside the door move up and down, individually, rhythmically, as each is struck like a key on a player piano. I hope it rains all day.