It has been raining here in Southern California. A fair amount. Most of those that I know, who are native Californians, love the rain because it rains here so infrequently. However, I do not like the rain. At all. Must be my east coast upbringing and the amount of the rain that came beginning in October, followed by the snow and then more rain and then, a few months reprieve of sunshine and then ... the cycle began again.
My children will tell you that, for as long as they can remember, I say I feel a kinship to the Wicked Witch of the West, no not because I can be, well, witchy, but because of the melting part. That part I can for sure relate to.
Yesterday as the rain came down, I thought of my mom, who loved the rain. She loved nothing better then to get up in the morning, find it was raining, proceed to have her bagel and tea and then head back to bed. Warm jammies. Socks on. Hot water bottle. Heavy blankets and old movies. That was a perfect day for her.
The last few months of my moms life, she spent a lot of time in bed. In her cozy pajamas. She owned more pairs of cozy pajamas then anyone I have ever known. Or probably will ever know. By late spring here in LA, the rain doesn't come often. Lucky me but for those who love it, like my mom, not so much. One particular morning my mom got up and thought how nice it would be if it were raining so she could stay in bed and watch an old movie. When she said that she wished it was raining, my dad, who adored her and would do anything, absolutely anything for her, asked her if she wanted him to go outside and spray the hose on the rooftop so she could imagine it was raining. When my mom told me that story, I though that quite possibly, is was the sweetest thing I had ever heard. And maybe, will ever hear.
This week, as we come upon yet another first, I am grateful for the memories. They allow me to smile through the tears that come unexpectedly. The memories allow me to remember. To never forget the beauty of the days with my mom.