Dear Rain Dear Rain, It has been a year of waiting for the fire. You scrape the pine needles from the floor of our yard. You capture the rain in barrels, water the yarrow from the bowels of the gutter-catch. Our son, Max, stands on the cedar play set. His hands move as if he's chiming in the percussion instruments, cuing the strings. He conducts the clouds. You can't hear from where you perch, summoning droplets from the spigot, that I ask Max, "Did you make it rain?" "No. Not yet. I can't make it rain. I can only make the clouds move." "Maybe tomorrow?" I say. "Maybe tomorrow." I sit on the porch, sip my wine, watch you take a bucketful of last month's collected rain to water the flax. I try to visualize rain. I sort of remember what it looks like. I get distracted by my iPhone. There's an update on the wild fire. I stare at the sky. Mind of matter. Try to summon clouds. Like Max, I fail to orchestrate the rain. Our daughter Zoë asks me, "Did you see that?" "What?" "The hummingbird. It tried to drink out of my ear." I missed it. I was thinking about fire. I should pay attention but the air zaps around me. The static distracts me like an iPhone. I miss my kids saying what they're saying. I miss the way you rake. By wanting something more, I am missing something all the time. The lack of rain makes me think I'm doing everything wrong. Just June ago, I looked at the sky and said, "come." The sky didn't listen and I knew the words of my prayers were wrong. I cannot order the clouds any more than I can order the gods I believe in to have mercy on my soul. The bossiness of prayer does not become me. Begging repulses rain. Rain makes me think about loss and the loss of rain. I can't always remember Portland. I moved to Flagstaff for a reason. It is beautiful here. Within reach of nine national parks, including the Grand Canyon. The top tier of nine descending life zones. Close to Salt Lake where my mother lives. It is not Oregon and Oregon's perpetual sustainability but I chose this place. It is dry here but, so far, there is plenty of water to drink. Rain should make me think about weight. Heavy land. Soaked clothes. Do you remember the time we went running in the rain? That was Utah and right after you made me believe we would return to Portland. We didn't. Instead we ate Portland at the lunch truck like Pok Pok, but not, sesame beef in a taco and then we drove farther south. The dirt turned sandy and you said, "You can see the whole world in a grain of sand" so I rubbed it into my eye. The doctor said the cornea scratched but that was just a record on a record player we played only twice. Talking Heads. Dire Straits. Johnny Cash. Now you, me, and sand. Nothing between us. As one. Pure metaphor but I can feel the sand in my hair, and the sand in you. Together. Forever? It was only two Junes ago that we faked a Portland and went to the coast but without tacos from the food trucks. We knew we were only posers. Water tourists. It rained but I was mad as a crow. How could it rain in June? I remember Portland in June and a flat creek outside of town, Crow Creek or Eagle Creek, and we (not you we, another we, a we that's mostly the same as us although she was thinner than me, thin as you) lay on our stomachs and crawled up the river, holding rock by rock as if the river were strong enough to push us down to the Willamette out to the Columbia and off to sea. We'd turn over and sit on our butts and eat blackberries that grew right over the stream. It was hot in June and sunny and Portland was best not because it didn't rain, the rain is great, but Portland is particularly great when it doesn't rain in June. When we visited Portland for the first time since Zoë was born, it rained in June. Excerpted from Sustainability: A Love Story by Nicole Walker All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
