Day and night, the sopping rain. Three to four inches, says the weather reporter; flood watch across lower areas. The mail is damp and spongy—bills and bulletins, plus the annual notice of assessed value on our home labeled "This is Not a Bill." I …  | Luisa A. Igloria March 28 | Day and night, the sopping rain. Three to four inches, says the weather reporter; flood watch across lower areas. The mail is damp and spongy—bills and bulletins, plus the annual notice of assessed value on our home labeled "This is Not a Bill." I chop celery and onions, shape meat into a loaf cemented with beaten egg. I set the timer. It bakes in the oven while I clean the greasy kitchen tiles. A few days from now, with a sudden surge in temperature, the yard will fill with mushrooms, some on the stump of a tree cut down years ago. All this moisture feeding the spores that lurk in the soil and air, saying there's still so much work to do, until life comes to an end. Then we'll lie back in the earth drained to the bone, oblivious to cost and currency and purpose. | | | |
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