The number of umbrellas dotting the streets would lead one to believe that city folk are allergic to the rain. Black umbrellas, pink polka-dotted umbrellas, striped umbrellas. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. Everyone here is always in a rush, but there’s an extra kick to it in the rain, the drive to find shelter. There’s no warm rain in New York. Just the kind that chills you deep inside.
I don’t mind the rain.
There’s not much greenery here in need of nourishment, but it still feels to me like there is something rejuvenating about water falling from the sky, clear, fresh, and wet. There’s something nice about chilly puddles creeping into your socks and slipping between your toes when followed by the promise of a warm and inviting home, the promise of stripping off the damp second skin, cranking up the heat, and huddling under the covers while watching the drops falling outside.
But my favorite part of the inclement weather is waking up to the rain, each drop a percussive musical note. I like feeling the warm body of my husband snuggled up beside me and observing the sheets of water rain steadily down.
Time always seems to slow down when it rains.
The one window in our apartment, usually adorned with construction workers staring awkwardly into our bedroom, is unobstructed. The construction stops when it rains and I keep the blinds wide open, letting in the soft, grey light.
Sometimes the bedsheets turn into tentacles and tether me down, waiting out the weather from my bed, save the occasional forage into the kitchen. It’s so cozy here that I think I’ll keep waiting until I smell turkey in the oven. Wake me up when the holidays are here.