The sky weeps

The monsoon has begun.

It started gently, and very, very late.

It began as a gentle rain - exactly what this country needed after the worst drought in more than a century. I walked home in the drizzle last night and it was welcome and refreshing.

I woke this morning to a light rain but in the two hours since then, it has built. Now, as I look out my window, I can see waves of water reaching from the sky to the ground. By tomorrow, I know from experience, there will be people wading through waist-high water and subway stations turned into geysers.

I just called home.

I left it too late, I think.

There's a cantankerous, curmudgeonly, incredibly well-read and intelligent man I love and respect, and he's dying.

I'm not real good with being away from the people I care for when they're dying. But I'm away.

This morning, I tried to call his home. I said I would do that every weekend but life got in the way and by the time I thought of it most weekends lately, the time difference made it too late,

Or . . . see above, I'm not real good with being away from the people I care for when they're dying. (I was AWOL for a year as his son died.) Perhaps I'm just not real good with the people I care for dying.

The monsoon has begun.

There's something about a monsoon,

They're deadly - thankfully less so here than in countries such as Indonesia, where every monsoon means flooding of poor neighborhoods.

Monsoons are incredibly powerful. As if Mother Nature/Gaia is slapping you down.

They also renew/reinvigorate/change - just as wildfires do (can I send my monsoon to Colorado, please).

I don't take an umbrella in a monsoon. I accept it as it is, enjoy the elemental nature of it, and pack a change of clothes in a waterproof bag.

This began as a post about the monsoon, segued into how I feel while my friend is dying, and I hoped to find an analogy somewhere between the two.

I can't. Just simple thoughts.

Sometimes it rains.

People die.

Welcome the rain.

Love the people who are worthy of your love.