It wasn’t that I didn’t like the rain, I do. Always have. Especially what it does for the flowers. Cherry-red roses by the dozen. Passion-pink tulips, the color of lemonade and sweet tarts. Purple pansies, too. The rain makes magic. And music. Savory melodies mixed with caramel-flavored warmth and citrus-tinged curiosity. One day plots of grass appeared bare. The next, bright puffs of rainbow flavored bursts of confetti spread and spray. So sweet.
I just don’t like to walk in the rain. I prefer to watch it. From the inside out. And the outside in. Only, I don’t like conflict, either. And that night, there was lots of it. Too much. The television was unsettling. So much data. So much death. News reports of ghost guns by the dozen. Supplies and surplus. Counter responses replete of daily da
