Come and Rest Your Bones with Me
Sunday morning, rain is falling.
Steal some covers, share some skin.
Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable,
You twist to fit the mold that I am in.
Last May, almost a year ago, Rob and I moved into an apartment. My graduation weekend had passed and friends had gone and we packed our cars to the brim with remnants of my life in college. That next week, we slowly unpacked boxes and found places for our things. It was summer, and neither of us had started our jobs yet; we had both just finished up semesters of work and we had nothing to do.
I delighted in waking up in the mornings and tiptoeing, barefoot, across the cool lacquered cement floor to the kitchen to make coffee and eggs. I'd throw on sports bras and tennis shoes and sneak out to run through the muggy morning. I felt completely free in the early mornings of this new place of mine, with my boyfriend sleeping so gently in the other room.
I remember the first time it rained at my new home.
I could hear it on the roof, and it was such an inviting noise that I couldn't seem to get out the door fast enough. My running shoes were on, and I hit the pavement eagerly and headed toward my favorite course. Running in the rain is beautiful because almost no one wants to do it with you, and you can't bring an iPod or a phone, so you're truly alone out there. You can't tell if you're sweating or just being washed clean.
I came back inside and Rob was awake. I took a bath because we didn't have a shower curtain yet. We got ready and walked the six or seven blocks downtown to our local coffee shop to have a relaxing breakfast and mugs of Mill Mountain Blend. We sat in the window and watched the warm rain come down, savoring the luxury of having nothing to do all day but walk home, holding hands, and venture out in search of shower curtains and bath mats.
I'm ready for more of that.