It rained this past March 31.
I remember because it was the day we laid my wife to rest.
We huddled together at the graveside. In part because of the rain. In part to be close.
The tears fell like the gentle shower that gathered in pools atop the canopy and spilled over the edge.
Since that day, at the close of most days, I can be found not at what I would describe as my happy place as happiness seems somehow insufficient, shallow, transitory.
No, here I am content, settled, unhurried.
Even down on my knees, weeding the flower garden.
In the rain.
It’s peaceful here. I feel protected, and loved.
It was there just an evening ago that I looked up from my task of running my ungloved fingers through the dirt, shaking loose soil from the weeds, and there among the flowers a bumblebee had found a place of shelter from the gentle rain.
Beneath a single petal the bumblebee rested from the pollen-gathering labors of the day.
Tomorrow the bumblebee would return to its task but for now, tonight, as the shadows lengthened, it huddled close beneath its colorful canopy as the gentle shower gathered in pools atop and spilled over the edge.