A Rainy Day

A short creative writing exercise.

Where I live, waking up on a rainy day is a slow, dreamlike experience.

The overcast sky steeps my room in dark, formless shadows that flatten against my aged teak walls and stain the maple flooring with inky blue.

No one’s home to tell me to shut the windows. The curtains flap like the wings of a seabird, sending in a salty drizzle straight from the north. My linen sheets smell of the earth. They are damp, warm, and wrapped tightly around my knotted feet. I stretch languidly with a yawn and glance around.

The cup I was sipping from last night sits empty, tea leaves bloated and curling at the bottom like dark, sticky seaweed. A crumpled paperback is upside down on my bedstand. Boredom: A Lively History. Even from the slanting shadows, the sentient ocean and sun-bleached doorway on its cover seem to glow. I stare at the waves until my eyes begin to swim.

My body is heavy again. I’m being swallowed by memories of Caribbean jazz and fresh chowder and mildewed driftwood between my toes. I suddenly feel old. The morning rises around me, an unrelenting tide, and takes me in, ushering me into another dreamless sleep.