I miss rain.
It doesn’t rain nearly enough in Southern California for my liking. I miss storms. Grey skies and the smell of a quiet day spent reading and sleeping curled in your favorite blanket flood my mind and I pray for them quietly in vain.
I can feel myself readying. I am not quite ready to walk out the door, but I am finishing my drink and looking at the clock in disbelief at how much time has lapsed since we sat down together. I miss home.
Isn’t it curious how some things are catching? How some things take hold and dig roots, then sprout and blossom into something glorious? I watch as obscure musicians grow into pop stars, as quiet bloggers become poets and best selling authors, and as girls with dreams and sewing kits become designers. Talent is never enough. There are lots of talented people, what is the recipe? Talent and will, dumb luck and a deep seeded longing to be somewhere, anywhere but here.
Sometimes I forget about the past entirely. The day my knees hit the floor hard weighed down by news of the biggest loss. I forget the hours spent contemplating between which him was my heart really meant for and I catch myself ready to dive again.
It’s the same thing. Falling in love and falling in success. It’s wedged in between all the losses, tangled chains of rejection, all the gut wrenching isolation that left you questioning every good thing you offer this world AND euphoric bliss, heart palpitating joy, and anointed rhythm. Maybe the truly successful, and the lovers of this world have short memories.
The gaps in between my fingers feel incomplete. My stomach turns at the nearest recollection of the last time my hand was held, squeezed, kissed, and discarded carelessly. I never cried. I held my breath waiting for it but maybe Carrie was right, maybe you can only use so many tears on one guy. I don’t miss him. I miss something I haven’t had yet.
I miss all the things I love like walking in rain and acoustic guitar. Dinners with just us two discussing trivial things passionately, blankets I swath in that smell like him, picture frames filled with our dreams and superheroes. The Civil Wars, they understood.
If we are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams, why can I not compose a now more illustrative of my hearts desire? Maybe I haven’t fount the sweet spot the space between. Maybe I remember too much. Maybe if it would just rain and wash it all away…