If you live to be eighty, you only have 29,000 days.
Some days it will be rain; so enjoy because rain is not bad.
On a rainy Saturday, you can sit around breakfast a bit longer, and watch the ones you love stir their eggs, and complain about cancelled this and that, all the while José Feliciano sings on the radio. And behind their heads, you can see a trinket of rain sliding down the glass; how it slips by if no one is watching.
Rain is heaven watering your geraniums, teasing the retired dog—Dante left in the patio, shivering, shaking, and flopping his ears in a frenzy, thinking this is the way to dry!
Rain is water coming from nowhere; how strange without a faucet. Water from the skies that fills the seas and kisses the soil.
With breakfast over and two tight hugs, it is time to stroll on cobblestones, wanting to shout over rooftops— Rain is fine; all of it is fine!
Then around the corner, just beyond the canal, the old man with four teeth and a 129 days, sits inside his cardboard castle, smiling wide; his umbrella sales are skyrocketing!
Kambiz Naficy
