I love when the day can’t take the heat anymore, and the sky just opens up with rain. Sunday, C. & I sat in the car talking and waiting out the storm; yesterday, when the rain rolled in, a friend and I found an awning at a little cafe in the east village, and we pulled up chairs, ordered peppermint tea and scrawled silly poems on cocktail napkins.
The sun shone as the rain fell, and I thought about when I was little and how Mama Heaton said the rain falling while the sun shined meant the devil was beating his wife. Even now, it’s the first thing I think of when I’m sitting in a sunshower. Oh, the devil’s beating his wife again.
Strange how we take the words of those we love and carry them as mantras–heavy pendants that knock against our breastbones as we make our way from one ghostly town to the next.