It’s one of those rainy days. The good ones. Like the ones when I was younger where I would stay in my room and find my copy of Inkheart by Cornelia Funke to read for hours and hours. I’m not sure why, but it was always my rainy day go-to book. I think it was because of the way the book starts in the first chapter. With the rain on the window. I love it.
Today is a day much like so many of those were. But I’ve decided to write it down before I pick up my book again. Through raindrop speckled windows the street is a blurry watercolour and the grass a mossy green.
Cars on the streets carve hissing trails in the puddles, and the sky is completely grey but not dark or menacing.
Inside, the lamps in each room glow with a warm light and everything is in varying shades of brown, green and ivory. The sound of the gentle rain outside gives the inside a sleepy atmosphere. Thick blankets rest folded and draped over the arms of chairs and the smell of coffee from the kitchen made many hours before still drifts through the house, blending with the earthy scent that comes through a screen door in another room. A pencil scratches away at a homework assignment. Socks slide on dark wood floors. Legs curl up under blankets and among couch pillows. Fingers turn dog-eared pages of books lit by yellow butterscotch lights.
All sounds seem muted, in the background somehow, like voices in the kitchen and music upstairs. My golden retriever gets up off one couch and hops up onto the adjacent one to lazily yawn and fall asleep again. My phone buzzes. The screen of my computer glows as a new email comes in. But neither seem urgent. The mug of coffee is cold on the table beside me. I must have dozed off.
It’s one of the good rainy days.