It is a dreary, wet day today. The sky is the color of the dirty white walls in our house, and a steady rain has been beating the sidewalk and street since before we rolled out of bed this morning. Although soggy, the grass looks greener for the rain and the cars on our short little street appear thankful to have had the bird waste washed from their doors and the paint freshened up by the removal of dirt and grime.
Today the birds are sighing from the strong branches of the trees across the street, fluttering their wings in acceptance of the rain but caring little for song and gaiety. A stray cat or two slinks down the road in search of a free meal, its drenched bedraggled fur clinging to the ribcage that juts out even more exaggeratedly in the downpour.
A little boy pokes his face through a section of broken blinds, his own little window to the outside world, looking for his daddy to come home because, after all, it seems to be dark out there and dusk is daddy’s usual time for coming home. After keeping a lookout for a bit he resigns himself to the couch to watch his favorite movie-of-the-week, Singing In The Rain, which today seems oddly appropriate.
His little sister is snug in mommy’s arms next to him. An occasional sad-sounding cough reverberates through her chest; her eyes red and runny. These types of melancholy days are more conducive to forgetting the housework and nestling a sick baby as opposed to bright and sunny days that energize and demand productivity.
Never mind the pile of folded laundry that awaits its return to the dresser drawer where it will sit until worn, soiled and washed again. The dirty dishes will still be in the sink later, or tomorrow when perhaps the sun will find its way from behind the cloaked sky and make the chore a little more cheery. There is a particular amount of satisfaction to be had in passing a dreary afternoon with one’s babies safely tucked away in their mommy’s arms.
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