The day we opened the windows

It rained this weekend — all night Friday, all day Saturday, and right on into Sunday afternoon.

Rain. Lots of rain. Five whole inches of rain, to be exact.

Aveline’s favorite Johnny Cash song seemed appropriate.

How high’s the water, mama? How high’s the water, papa?
Hey, come look through the window pane,
The bus is comin’, gonna take us to the train
Looks like we’ll be blessed with a little more rain,
Four feet high and risin’…

But then, on Sunday afternoon, the clouds thinned. The sun shone down on the brand-new little sparkly rivers that had swollen up alongside all the streets … and the unprecedented happened.

There was a cool breeze.
The air conditioner didn’t turn on.
And we opened the windows.

For this first time in months, the air outside smelled fresh. Everything seemed different, like we’d suddenly traveled thousands of miles and were somehow suddenly home.

Fresh air changes everything.

People who wax poetic about the Sunshine State have never spent a whole summer here, because the endlessly soggy and static season which stretches from March to October is a lot less like summer and a lot more like being steamed alive. There is no crisp moment before the day starts. There is no pause of cool rest after sunset, no quietly sinking lower into a refreshing overnight calm.

But last night, in that pure grey moment after the light slipped behind the ridge across the road, October finally raised its voice and said, “I’m here. Let me wrap you in this cool breeze like a blanket. Let me welcome you to fall.”

And right then, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the open windows, the slate grey sky never seemed so beautiful.