Winter Winds

I went for a walk in the rain today. I had somewhere to go, but I took my time on the way back. Even with my hood up the tips of my hair was dripping and the front of my pants were soaked. I love to walk through the cemetery and I've always wanted to take pictures of the crumbling stones and trees that stand like pillars holding up the canopy over the path. Today, in the rain, I did. I almost wanted to spin around and dance in it once I was sufficiently drenched before I realized that even in the rain there would be plenty of witnesses to my madness.

I've walked down this path in sunshine, in mist, at night, with friends, in heels, and today in the pouring rain. I remember the first Sunday I realized the trees looked like the architecture of an ancient building and that night in my reading discovered that Charles Baudelaire had once seen the same thing I had. He had seen living pillars. He had felt words that were dim and confused. But his words, even when translated into a different language, did not seem dim or confused. I saw the image perfectly. I wanted to write my own to make someone else see. But I didn't try. I knew it wouldn't go quite right.

The winds remind me of home. I didn't realize they were absent until I heard them in the oak outside my window one afternoon. I always used to complain about the constant bluster, but now it delights me when my hair is picked up and tossed around by the breeze. I miss falling asleep to the white noise of a wind storm.

I haven't been home in three months and I won't for another three. And even then it may not be for long. I get to see family soon and I've never been one to turn down the chance to see somewhere new, but I kind of want to go home. Either way I wouldn't see my dad and by going to California I get to see my brother and his family. I won't have to deal with dreary Idaho March either. But I kind of envy my friend who is going back to Idaho to see his family for the first time in three months also. I miss my dog. And my bed. And being home.