It had rained for five days. Hard, like a rage spilling into the earth. I had my mountaintop writing residency waiting, the one with scenic hiking trails and early hints of fall foliage.
To be honest, the rain made me mad.
“Maybe,” my son said, “…maybe the rain is coming to wash your old stories away so you can go to your residency and write new ones.”
The rain continued another five days. I hiked only three times, right up the side of the mountain, breathing so hard I tasted blood in my throat.
Everyone talked about the rain; the mountain monsoon. We pounded the dining room table in frustration. We worried about the road washing out. We worried about downed trees and losing electricity.
I sat in my cabin and I wrote. Five days of writing. Five days of graphic dreams where I finally tasted myself. Five days of parched earth soaking in the manna that fell from the sky.
The official announcement arrived on the last day: Be grateful for the deluge, for it meant that the state of drought was officially over.
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