Pita Pata, Hola

Since I have lived here, now in my third June in Peekskill, NY, this month appears to be the rainiest, with the lingering chill of winter still.

Hear it pour. Softly, in the grass and weeds of the backyard—now lush, green, and grown so high it must feel like jungle to the creatures who pass through: the wild cats, Daisy and Peshwari (though truthfully, they’re not so wild anymore), other strays who drift in and out, raccoons, skunks, birds, and that beautiful little baby chipmunk. I think that’s who I’ve spotted recently, nibbling at the weeds.

Hear the rain, hear it pour. A slow beat. A pita pata on the concrete. A pita pata on the windowpane, in the alley, where it taps the propane tanks and the leaves that drape overhead—one limb reaching for my kitchen window, as if to greet me each morning with a quiet “Hola.”

Hear the rain. I do hear. Clearly, now. On days like this, reading feels right. Anything does, really. But reading is my favorite—well, next to creating. Next to writing. Next to making love. Though lately, that last one feels more like a chore than the sacred ceremony it used to be. I crave it less. And that’s okay… Because I know who it is I truly crave.

The rest? Just passing shadows—fillers— until he returns, like the rain, echoing now in my ear.

Jogging will be delayed this morning. That’s for sure.

Rain falls the backyard on Decatur Avenue, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of a jungle.