This morning is full of magic.
I wake up in my bed, a fluffy cloud thing, and roll under the sheets to stretch my sleeping limbs. I slide my hand out into the cold void between the covers and the nightstand, and find my phone.
Goodmorning, I send to Kurtis.
It takes me a few minutes more, after going pee and brushing my teeth, to realize that the light from behind the hanging blinds is unusually grey for eight thirty. The familiar sound of rain comes dripping into my awareness, and I pace into the living room where the windows are open and the smell and sound of the gentle storm is fully present.
It is a rainy Sunday, the best kind of day. I make tea, water my basil plant named Coo, and pull on the sweater that is more like a blanket. I sit and observe the silvery light that outlines everything in my apartment; the edge of the counter, the sides of the dining chairs, the tips of the fan blades hanging from the ceiling. The pillows on the couch look grey and soft, the metal pieces on the chest shine like nickels.
I love the sounds of the rain. Sometimes the drops hit the railing, and make a slight, musical ping. Other drops land with a fat plop on the leaves of the tree outside my window, and then sweetly dribble past all the other leaves to land on the thirsty soil. Birds chirp restlessly, frogs croak in their amphibious joy. I think I can even hear the sounds of laughter in the clouds, a contented chuckle as they pass over with the breeze.
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