I had been looking  forward  to having been born in the
summer for the first time in my life, but as I wake up,
it's pouring down. So I don't.

It's not like I can  think  of anything I'd like to do,
anyway. I  got  a  little  cleaning and organizing done
last night, which is  a  much better present than going
through any kind of celebratory motions. I have come to
appreciate being in control of one's own happiness, but
this I   think  is  one  day  when it should be someone
else's job.

I'm old enough to know for certain that just passing of
time isn't enough to cure what is childish in me.

I dawdle at home until the rain lets up, thinking of my
grandmother singing to me  over  the phone: a moment of
silence on the line, and then her familiar song. If I'm
already down, there's no harm in trying to recreate her
graceful voice in my  mind  as  I follow the melody. In
the course of the day,  it  grows vivid enough I can be
grateful for not forgetting yet.

Or, flowers   from  Atlas,  almost equally unlikely but
this   one  I  do  manage  to  convince myself of for a
second. (Because  these  are  the  kind of wonders that
happen in my life whenever  it's not going to hell in a
handbasket. Because I  dreamt  about it once, and after
our strange near miss in  June,  I  may or may not have
been telling myself now every other dream I've ever had
of him will eventually  happen. It's a pity I never did
finish writing  about  either  of  these, but 'you' are
just me   anyway,  so  let  this be your reminder.) The
noise in  the  hallway  of  course turns out to be just
neighbors.

The gamble   paid  off,  though,  and it's not actively
pouring down anymore as  I walk to the library, even if
the weather is still disgusting. Grant application took
another several steps  forwards,  and whether it's what
I'd genuinely wish to be doing, the false conviction is
one antidote for this funk. The quiet company of people
is the next best thing.