The rain is washing California bare, drawing out the mud that holds up spillways and trees. Why it’s raining? my son asks, and then he answers, Because the clouds are full of water.
So many of my people are inundated, the wash of bad news eroding their strength. We are sodden with worry, making calls with damp fingers, sending postcards into an impenetrably murky swamp.
Will we see the sun again? Will the clouds empty? I have my own questions. I don’t have answers. I am too busy filling sandbags as the rain erodes what’s left of my hope.