Still

Roughly seven months ago I sat on a Jackson Square curb on a warm late-autumn day in New Orleans. I was killing time before my flight home and it was just one of those moments that was perfect. It struck me that I have those often, and my heart sank as I realized that it was likely that in a few weeks time that memory would be lost with most of it's predecessors. Ironically, that melancholy thought stuck with me, and gave me an anchor to that sunny morning. I only mention this as I was just sitting out in the cool dark of my front porch at 11:30 at night listening to it rain. It was another of those times where, for once, everything about me was still. I could smell the irises, mingling with the smells of the rain and earth. The clouds spread out featurelessly, reflecting the city lights. I thought back to this afternoon's lunch at The Point up on the hill and how I looked down over the city and realized again how small downtown really is. I noticed the grass could use cutting again already and that I ought to make sure the violets get watered more often, because they look so good against the rocks. It struck me as odd that the trees have leafed out so quickly, and yet it doesn't seem as surreal as it feels it should after so long looking at them bare. Maybe because this is the way it's supposed to be. Stan the cat ran up to me as he does whenever he discovers I'm outside. He hadn't bothered to stay out of the rain. He never does. He never worries how uncomfortable it is to have a cat sharing his damp, shedding coat as he insistently crawls across your lap. And it struck me that maybe this is something I'm missing. Maybe I'm only to the point where I can enjoy the rain.