Raindrops and Oranges

The Seattle rain begins.

It starts subtly, each individual drop a note in a scale,

Playing a melody for me as I stare outside my window.

Gradually, the drops become a full-out symphony that floods my ears.

What if the rain could play jazz? I laugh.

The sound of the rain blocks everything out.

The shouting, the crying, even the pain.

I can’t hear the arguing.

All I feel is numbness.

And all I see are the sweet raindrops like grapes splattering against my window.

But before the melody gets too loud, the rain stops.

Soon it is time for me to leave my Seattle rain behind.

Oranges on a tree.

One of my first sites of Davis.

From afar, like little pockets of golden sun and sweetness

That promise good things to come and a brighter future.

Up close, the skin is tough and resistant,

Inside, full of a sweet sticky liquid that caresses my tongue and drops down my chin.

Drops.

Drops of rain.

That trickle into my consciousness.

And burst into a river of memories…of my Seattle rain.

But, the stimulating citrus wakens my senses and brings me back.

It reminds me of where I am.

I crouch down on the crunchy, brown, thirsty grass,

Beneath a tree with tiny orange bodies that hold the wonders of the world and all California has to offer me,

And I look at the tough, bumpy peels, and the vulnerable half-eaten orange sphere in my hand.

And somewhere off in the corners of my mind, I hear a light symphony of raindrops.

Somewhere inside of me it will always rain, but the sound is not as prominent as the taste on my tongue.

The rain is not as prominent as the vibrant oranges on the tree.

Yes, I must forget my Seattle rain. I must stop listening.

But it’s too hard.

Can I have both?

And I remain hunched under that tree that bears the fruit of endless possibilities.

And I listen to my Seattle rain and taste my Davis orange, and think,

I am the fruit of raindrops and oranges.