Honie Briggs

Fat drops flop down from the eaves, splatting onto the sidewalk.  Wind swishes the branches of tall trees along the edge of the road in front of my house. I love spring rains. Warm and nurturing, like a nice cup of tea. The earth drinks it in. Soon wildflower seeds I sewed out front will sprout and before too long the summer sun will stretch across crimson blooms of Cosmos. Blistering heat will radiate from the concrete even after the sun sets and runoff from the sprinklers at the top of the hill will puddle near the storm drain.

Today it’s the little things, signs of life on the Meyer lemon tree that was defoliated last summer by a plague of grasshoppers, a patio littered with petals from the antique rose that has taken over the pergola, Cardinals taking turns in the fountain bringing happiness to my doorstep. Happiness and hope. Hope that this year will in fact turn out to be the year of something better as I proclaimed back in January. Hope that efforts will truly make a difference in our community. Hope that some catastrophe won’t break the magical spell.

Early afternoon, steady rain through the open patio door sounds like bacon sizzling. Low rumbles of thunder are drowned out by the whooshing whistle of jet engines that split the clouds as passengers approach DFW. I can almost hear the flight attendant asking them to bring their seat backs to the full and upright position and then once again it’s quite in the house, save the clicking of my keyboard. Thunder claps, rattling the windows in my office. The phone rings. It’s my loyal follower calling to say he loves me. In this moment, I am the luckiest woman alive. What a difference a day makes.