Summer Rain

I fell in love in a moment. Today it was with the rain. After threatening us ominously for several days with a tense humidity and inconsistent clouds, today it fell. The air cleared and the whole countryside seemed to take a deep breath. It let itself go, knowing that the mountains held it securely in their stony arms. Not wanting to be left out of the full experience of such a beautiful summer rain, I put on my bathing suit and went down into the courtyard. Opening the old wood door to the garden and stepping through the ancient stone wall was like entering into another world.

The flowers were bobbing their heads in time with the raindrops, the trees were swaying, and the little bugs were flying low over the grass like flashes of light. Like sparks. The roses smiled, passionately displaying their pink petals, extending them towards the source of this heavenly rainfall.

I walked down to the creek. The water was a semi-opaque warm grey, except where it sprinted over the rocks, embracing and cooling them, protecting them from the freshly cleared air. Stuck in the stream-bed, to me they looked encased in glass. Suddenly, I saw a small group of men fishing on the other side of the water. I’m sure they saw me, but I pretended that they hadn’t. I crouched low, my hands gripping the muddy bank, embodying a river spirit, peering at them through the prehistoric grasses that had started to invade the garden from below. After smiling with the river and stalking the unsuspecting interlopers for several minutes, I left the bank of the stream to check on the cérisiers.

It was the last day of the season, and the cherries still clinging to the tree were pulsating with ripe, red, virile energy. The rain slid off their tight flesh, leaving streaks of wetness behind. The largest bee I had ever seen was drowning itself in a cherry’s flesh, its yellow and black armor bright against the carnal purple of the fruit. It had already eaten half and seemed to be unable to stop himself from digging deeper, the open berry gaping and bloody. I imagined him thrusting fistfuls of fruit into his cheeks, the juice running down his chest. Sticky and sweet.

I smiled and stood back, rain forming drops on my shoulders and sliding down my bare back. It reached the base of my spine and I shivered. La joie pûre. I sat on a white rock in the middle of the garden, next to a broken flower pot, overturned and empty. My mind cleared. My senses grew sharper as my consciousness expanded to encompass the garden, the stream, the trees, the bee-warrior overcome by lust. The rain against my back grew colder and narrow streams of water rolled down my spine, my forehead almost touching my knees, the back of my neck facing the watery sky. I waited. Lifting my head, I watched the rain fall until the droplets streaked against my pupils like points of light. Like shooting stars.

When enough time had passed, I went back through the door of the garden, shutting the latch and bolting it twice. Turning around, I faced the quiet courtyard. No carnal cherries here, only docile stalks of lavender and moss-covered stones, slick with precipitation. The bees swarming these delicate flowers were of a different nature. They buzzed about in an orderly fashion, less crazed with dripping purple concupiscence and longing. I climbed up the stairs, listening to the my aunt’s clarinet music waft out of an open window. Back on my room, I stripped and dried my chilled skin. Putting on a warm shirt, I sat down to write.