Dating : Brick Valley Downpours

There was a storm passing over the left side of the sky, sliding across the tips of mountains like a thick cotton blanket. It washed over the tallest mountain to left — my Father’s favorite one and fell deep into the valley of brown ski stores and the icy river. It was a deep grey that reflected onto the entire town. All that penetrated through the fog were divine golden blocks of light projected out of living room windows where families cozied up over long wooden tables to play a game of cards.

The video scanned across the tiny kitchen to where my Mom leaned against the stove like an extension of the furniture, nibbling on the leftover dark chocolate my Dad enjoyed on the slopes earlier. Her eyes closed in content, curtained behind her nest of bathtub hair. He turned the camera to his sleepy face. Der Bergen vermisst Dich. Schlaff gut.

I played the video at least five times on my crumb infested couch on second ave, listening to the insistent song of my overloaded washing machine. I hope I didn’t fuck up my whites.

The city’s rain is always romanticized. For the lovers stuck under deli awnings and the old man with his soggy cigarette to be reminded that between all of this gum filled concrete are little weeds pushing themselves through wrappers for just a bit of water. The storm on my side of the world seemed much different outside of my two windows facing the backs of brick apartments and ever-present trash chute. The rain continued to fill up the empty Stella bottle on the ledge outside. I don’t think I’ve moved it since that night in November, when I sat sculpture-still on my chipping fire escape contemplating my grand if’s and or’s, as if life was a ten-piece jigsaw puzzle, without any rain pours. I wish.