It hasn’t been raining constantly in New England this past week or so; it just feels that way. On Sunday afternoon in Newton, J and I took a short walk around the neighborhood, on the lookout for blooming daffodils, sprouting peonies, and other signs of spring. Already in late afternoon, the sky was darkening with the gathering clouds of the latest rainstorm, which started on Sunday night and has continued until today.
This morning in Keene, it was gray but not raining when I walked Reggie, and it felt like an unheard of luxury to walk without a raincoat or umbrella. The soil was still saturated, with mud and standing water everywhere, and various neighbors’ sump-pumps still gushed chugging rivers out of basements. But I didn’t have to change out of rain-bedraggled jeans (or try–unsuccessfully–to towel off a soggy, wriggly dog) when I got home: a small victory. By by dinner time, though, the rain returned, and as I type these words, I can’t tell whether the pattering I hear outside my window is falling rain or dripping eaves.
Tomorrow is April, and I tell myself that spring and sunshine will be here soon enough…but not yet. In the meantime, I solace myself with the memory of Sunday daffodils glowing with their own cellular warmth, a sight stolen between raindrops.