Rain fell today. I could tell from the sky, from how the air shifted in the office, that rain arrived. I walked carefully over the cobbled sidewalks outside of the office and let myself be rained upon. The sweet feel of clean rain.

Standing at the bus stop. Six lanes of traffic flowing past me at ten o'clock at night. Tires loud on the wet asphalt.

I look up at the Hotel Vancouver. We stayed in that room there, the corner one with the light on, in November. I slept on my side of the king bed and we did not touch. I begged you to come to the pool with me in the morning, and we waited for you to have your coffee, and by that time the pool was full of children and so you did not want to swim. Why did I not slip away in the early hours, alone, to dive into the warm deep pool? Instead I lay there in the dark waiting for you to rise and in doing so set all of myself aside.

These haunting moments, pulling me under. Keeping my head up, kicking harder, fighting against the abyss. Some blissfull moments of starfish floating, the sun on my face and my body gently supported. And then suddenly a wave breaks over my face, and I flail to catch my breath.

I step off the bus into an inch of fresh snow, the elevation higher here than in town. I will be back on this bus again, going the other direction, in eight hours.

Up and down. Back and forth.

I sink into bed and feel safe in the silent suburban darkness.