Jaki Jean on Drizzling Rain, Snowflakes & Promise

This afternoon, when I went outside to bring in the trash can, it was raining.  A drizzle,  the kind of rain that I love after so many years of living in a reclaimed swamp.  Where rain dominates.

Although I still remember & cherish the downpours in the desert that brought the seemingly barren landscape to life.

A drizzle is a rain for walking, if your shoes are not adorable canvas Bobs or Toms.  A rain for thinking.  A rain for dreaming & rejoicing.

And sometimes, over the years, in dreams & reality, a rain for finding a secluded spot, spreading out a quilt & making love.  A background for great sex.

A drizzle is the finest of rain.  It makes my hair curl & frizz & drops on my face like tiny promises. 

All those tiny drops of promise for sustenance, renewal & quenching an inexplicable thirst.

Years ago, I had an afternoon that came close to a drizzle rain.  I left my roommate to clean up the dishes from a Thanksgiving dinner we hosted to catch a plane to Connecticut, to spend the weekend with a man I lusted after for two years before he finally took me out to dinner & eventually to bed.

He left his job & life in the inner city of Houston to return to Connecticut because his knees sweat & he missed wearing sweaters & shorts.  And of course, there was nothing to keep him in Texas, although I desperately wanted to be that something.

During that extended weekend, we had dinner with his parents, took a trip into New York City, ate seafood on Long Island Sound & felt the first snow on the edge of the home of William F. Buckley, Jr.

An odd choice for this liberal Democrat, I know.  But I was quite enamored of William F. Buckley, Jr.’s voice & his command of the English language.

The first snowflakes fell gently, like the drizzling rain I love.  It was beautiful.  The snowflakes weren’t cold, just different than a drizzle.  Lovely, but different. 

I stood before Buckley’s home & let the snowflakes fall on my face & I knew.

The snowflakes offered no promises, but marked an ending. 

I would never return to that same place.

A drizzle of rain never marks an ending,  just a promise.

For thinking, dreaming & rejuvenation.  And sometimes, to quench an insatiable thirst.

Snowflakes are another story.