Uncharacteristically wet morning in late June, more than drizzle but less than rain.
Beyond the wall of windows in the great room: expected coastal fog but with asphalt roads visibly soaked enough to preclude my comfortably taking a morning bike ride. Seattle riders wouldn't think twice, but it takes so little to stop a Californian.
I am reading the poet Elizabeth Alexander's memoir, beginning with the days leading up to the death of her husband, an Eritrean artist, chef and restaurateur. Their love for one another is stirring and beautifully rendered, her imminent loss immense.
My wife joins me for breakfast. A strong ray of sunlight pierces the fog and illuminates the dining room, interrupting our morning chatter.
The physics of rain + sunlight causes me to momentarily rise from the table and search every south and west-facing window. Nothing.
Seconds before the shaft of sunlight recedes I announce melodramatically:
I can only conclude that we are living within the rainbow.
She smiles her response in a way that I always want to remember.
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