Something about a June morning with just enough rain to bring in a chill, to make the car tires hiss when they stop for red lights. Sweaters and puddles and a new bag of coffee, ground in, of all things, a Vitamix.
I’m meeting my editor today for the first time since I hit my head. Healing has been just as much an internal process. Some nights I lose sleep imagining my made-up alternate life, the one I’d have if different choices were made. And some mornings the world seems so simple and I remember that no matter what we choose, there will always be rain, and mornings, and coffee.
“There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won’t remember and that she can’t even let herself think about because that’s when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it’s always raining a slow and endless drizzle.
You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sign, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken.
Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again.
Whenever it rains you will think of her. ” — Neil Gaiman