summer rain storm

it smells like rain.  that earthy, metallic, dirty sweetness that emerges right at the start of the rain and stays for a while- hanging in the air, while things cool and soften and senses are enlivened and we are reconnected with the actual earth part of the earth.  the sky is full of noise and water and i love listening to it talk. like it's venting. like it's been a kind of bad day and it wants to share- to shout- to cry.  i get that.

zoe is at her friends house- her 'friend with autism' as she likes to refer to her. i'm wondering how she's doing in this thunderstorm- is she crying, covering her ears, all a dither? or is she being calm and helping her friend who might also be afraid- might also be more sensitive to the deep voice of the sky?

zoe.  me.  this process of trying to understand it- to frame it- to know it- to be still in it.
there are stages.  there are pieces.  i'm realizing that we are just.... here.  profound isn't it.

when i was in boston this past weekend, i took lily out for the afternoon.  lily, zoe's 'best friend', my god-daughter, the daughter of my 'best friend'. lily, normal 11, lily who've i've loved since before her birth, lily who i've watched hit all her milestones, lily who i looked at to show me where we'd be someday.  and it was an afternoon of what i'd hoped for in san francisco.  we shopped, we got massages, we laughed, we talked about 30 rock, we ate gluten and dairy.

it was all good and fun, and i allowed myself to be OK with it- to make it not feel like i was cheating on someone- to let it just be and not be betrayal.  i had wanted to take her out to thank her- to acknowledge her friendship with zoe- to let her know that i know it can be confusing and challenging and to tell her how much she means to zoe and to me. 

and it was part of a process- it was part of me accepting things- part of me being OK with who zoe is - that she is not lily- that she will never be lily- that she will have her own milestones and her own path.  that it can be full of it's own flowers- that are watered by the leaks in the cracked buckets.

today i heard the wiggly voice.  today i had a good conversation about what will be hard for her about moving to uganda.  today she kept eating pasta with her fingers instead of her fork.  today she cried about missing our dog clover if we can't bring her with us.  today she woke her brother in the car by pulling his hair because he was 'breathing too loudly'.  these are my days- her days- our inconsistent, confusing days.  i can not keep crying about them.  i can not wish that they'd go away- or my hair will go completely gray and my face will wrinkle into a prune. we are who we are.

the storm is still raging.
the porch is very wet.
the boys took their bath by candle light.
zoe came home with her ears covered in protection from the thunder and the baby crying in her friends car.
the air has cooled.  the roof is dripping, it's plinking on the metal grill cover. the sky is now quiet but the rain is speaking.  and it smells like a summer rain storm.

"‘Listen to the rain,’ she said.
‘It’s raining hard.’
‘And you’ll always love me, won’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And the rain won’t make any difference?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good. Because I’m afraid of the rain.’
‘Why?’ I was sleepy. Outside the rain was falling steadily.
‘I don’t know, darling…I like to walk on it, but it’s very hard on loving.’
‘I’ll love you always,’ I said.
‘I’ll love you in the rain and in the snow and in the hail."

— A Farewell to Arms - Ernest Hemingway