Rain

Its raining outside this evening.  I have always enjoyed the rain.  My daughter went to bed early, surprising for a Friday.  I made a cup of coffee and decided to go out on our balcony.  It took a minute to bring myself to open the door and walk through.  This was my wife's refuge, everything here for her happiness.  Her last pack of cigarettes still sit on the bistro table where she left them with her lighter.  Her spent cigarettes still sit in the astray.  Her plants, which my daughter swore she would take over tending, sit dead in their pots.  The rain, desperately needed in California, comes down at a steady pace.  I took the seat opposite hers and stared out at the rain.  The headlights of cars on the road below highlight the rain hitting the roadway.  I sit, quietly staring and absorbing the sound of the rain and cars sweeping by in the water gathering on the road.  I can count on one hand the number of times I have been out here since she died.  This was the longest visit I have made.  Still it is only minutes before I can't stay any longer.  Not even half a cup of coffee gone.  I am told that it gets better, or at least easier to deal with, as time passes.  I have not found that to be the case.  Maybe it was the tumultuous events afterwards.  Maybe not.  Maybe it will be someday, but not now.