My friend Kim wanted me to post this here. I said, “But it’s not about writing.” She said, “It’s an example for people like me who need inspiration to write about something special immediately after it happens.” So here you are.
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It’s been raining off and on for days—tres unusual for Southern California, even in winter. I love it. Everyone here lives for sunny days, and I do love sunny days, but I love rainy days more, perhaps because something is happening. I’m from back east where there’s lots of weather.

Still, because of the rain and cold, I haven’t been walking much. But this morning I decided I had to get out, so I put on my old tennis shoes in case they get wet —not the sparkling new ones I just bought—and my usual walking clothes. Because of the rain, I wear my purple windbreaker with hood and a hat. And fingerless gloves. I’m as prepared as I need to be—maybe even overdressed.

When I start out, it’s misting. I tuck the Netflix DVD I’m taking to the post office in my coat, under my arm, snug against my body. The sky is bright but it begins to rain harder. I pull up my hood. No one’s on the street except for an older woman and a little white dog. She holds a black and white striped umbrella over the dog so he doesn’t get wet doing his business. He sees me and barks. Few cars pass; even cars are staying in.

I head across the parking lot behind Coco’s. I love the sound of the rain. It sounds like hot oil sizzling in a cast iron pan. I close my eyes and walk, listening. At the post office a man says, “It’s wet.” “Sure is,” I say, “but I like it.” He doesn’t say anything, just watches the street and me going back out into it.

I’m wet now, and getting wetter. I decide I’d better go home. My shoes have water in them and it’s beginning to hail. I put out my hand and watch tiny mounds of ice pop onto my gloves and melt there. I laugh aloud, a little dizzy with happiness at being caught unexpectedly in a winter storm. I am so glad to be in it.

At crosswalks the water gushes by, ankle deep. I submerge my feet. My shoes are already wet so what’s it matter? The storm reminds me of El Nino when Travis was a small boy and from our window I’d watch rivers of water rush down the street, and Travis, on the porch bundled up, splashing in the rain.

By the time I return home, the rain has returned to mist. I step inside and de-clothe right in the doorway. I hang my coat on the doorknob and leave my sopping wet pants and socks and shoes on the floor by the rug. My legs are red from the cold but I don’t care.

It’s been lovely, and I feel lucky, wondering if the rain came so hard and heavy that little bit of time while I was out, just for me.