restricted access Rain
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39 Rain Now, with you asleep beside me, with the small kingdom of our yard bewildered by months of sun, water table sinking, signs on I-95 urging SAVE WATER—nevertheless I wake up cursing this rainy morning, dead ringer for the Sunday medics removed my father’s body from our house, when Art and Marilyn Johnson drove me through the downpour in the back seat of their Chevy so no one would have to pry him from my hands, because he had already drifted away, spilled over the waterfall where I couldn’t follow, like a noble warrior launched into his new life, his skiff receding on the river, like a fisherman competent finally in the mystery of the oldest fish’s mind, flowing, passing beyond me. I get out of the Johnson’s car, having spent too many years in it already, and thank them for their effort, and begin to reason with myself. Love this rain, I say. I say we need it. I hear chipping sparrows welcoming. Whatever comes, whatever comes. You smile in your sleep and turn over. Even now you are moving in a country where I cannot go. Outside, creatures are floating away. The liquid cry of a cat. Rivers, passing by our window. ...

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