Yesterday, the gardener who has been helping me remove all my beloved but now frozen and dead plants told me he might come back today. Might, he said, because they think it might rain. Might?
Hell, if this is might rain, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. It’s been pouring since we got up this morning and I don’t mean rain like everyone else talks about rain, I’m talking monsoon rain like only New Orleans can deliver. It’s grey outside and inside, the streets are near flooded, the backyard which was once a dense overzealously planted jungle is now barren and mucky.
When it rains like this it makes you wonder why you got out of bed when it is a day for staying under the covers, inside, and ideally all snuggled up. But instead I’m at my desk, my little boy is being watched by his nanny who got drenched on her bike over here, T is secluded in her office and nap, and Loca just keeps looking outside bewildered by the deluge.