If You Just Hold Your Breath
the genius next door was busing tables
It was the summer that embraced the rain.
For months, the sun no more than peeked around the multitude of clouds that hung heavy and ever-present in the noonday sky, a passive source of light, shedding as much sunshine as the sun does at four o’clock in the winter time.
But people made do with it all. Many stayed inside more often than not, and bonfires became a little less commonplace than in past years, but the groups at the lake continued to come and go just the same. There was still no school, and there was still a lake in town, and it was still mostly unpolluted by toxic chemicals, so they figured, why the fuck not?
And when it rained, it varied. There was cold rain, warm rain, a thin, clingy sheet of mist, or a thunder and lightning downpour; gentle rain, hard rain, sideways rain with wind and debris blown all around, or fat, heavy drops that splash and spread out like large amoebas.
The water levels rose, and people actually started to wear those ridiculously patterned rain boots that they bought that one time because, well, why not? There was no one puddle; there were chains of them, systems that wound through indentations in the black asphalt, the cracked sidewalks, and the newly green lawns. The previously dry creek beds were nearly overflowing and people made makeshift dams, fortifications to protect their basements from any more flooding.
The water even hung in the air, doing nothing to lessen the heat; in fact, it made the summer’s heat more intense, choking.
It started out as the summer that embraced the rain, and in retrospect, it was almost like a sign; they should have seen tragedy lurking just beyond the horizon.
For months, the sun no more than peeked around the multitude of clouds that hung heavy and ever-present in the noonday sky, a passive source of light, shedding as much sunshine as the sun does at four o’clock in the winter time.
But people made do with it all. Many stayed inside more often than not, and bonfires became a little less commonplace than in past years, but the groups at the lake continued to come and go just the same. There was still no school, and there was still a lake in town, and it was still mostly unpolluted by toxic chemicals, so they figured, why the fuck not?
And when it rained, it varied. There was cold rain, warm rain, a thin, clingy sheet of mist, or a thunder and lightning downpour; gentle rain, hard rain, sideways rain with wind and debris blown all around, or fat, heavy drops that splash and spread out like large amoebas.
The water levels rose, and people actually started to wear those ridiculously patterned rain boots that they bought that one time because, well, why not? There was no one puddle; there were chains of them, systems that wound through indentations in the black asphalt, the cracked sidewalks, and the newly green lawns. The previously dry creek beds were nearly overflowing and people made makeshift dams, fortifications to protect their basements from any more flooding.
The water even hung in the air, doing nothing to lessen the heat; in fact, it made the summer’s heat more intense, choking.
It started out as the summer that embraced the rain, and in retrospect, it was almost like a sign; they should have seen tragedy lurking just beyond the horizon.