Rainy days smell of fish guts rising out of the sea and blowing through my nose. Rainy days are rainboots sloping through puddles as I stand amused watching my daughter play carelessly, just as I did as a little girl. It is rainy today and she has already called an early appointment with the puddles that have accumulated swiftly on the pavement. “When we get home,” she declares “I am going to play in the puddles again.” She has claimed her territory.
Rainy days are good books by the fireplace I had my husband install, or movies with my kids all curled up under the cozy suede blankets. Rainy days are black leggings and sweatshirts, bad hair days and ‘hopefully my makeup can compensate for the messy hair’ days.
Rainy days are wet to say the least and I always wonder to myself why I keep my umbrella in the car. All three of them as a matter of fact. It doesn’t do me any good in there for the walk from my house to the car. I might as well not even own an umbrella!
Rainy days are fond memories of my brother, Alan, and I riding our bikes “full speed” through the puddles as tiny dirt clumps accumulated on the back of our shirts. My mother was always very fond of that (just as I am now when my kids do such things). When I feel careless, I too will drive aimlessly through gigantic mud puddles with my truck, just to get a raise out of my children. They love the reckless side of me and secretly I love it too.
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