Robodad

Rain 23-May 2010 10:24 AM

“Do you want to have sex?”

I know the tone, and I have heard it before. It is the tone and phrasing she uses when offering to bring something to a family gathering when she wants the answer to be “That’s OK. Thanks for offering, though.”

“No, that’s ok. Thanks for offering.” I smile.

I am going away on business in two days, and her offer was perfunctory and forced. Not that I would have minded a little intimacy, but the undertones in the question made our togetherness seem like an unwanted chore.

She seems a little surprised, but quickly recovers and turns back to resume her strict nightly regimen of channel surfing.

I am tired of her television, and feeling confined. I am ready for a walk. I go upstairs and out the front door in the dark. There, I meet my old childhood friend, the rain.

Down and up side streets we go. Wandering. Remembering.

Finally, the puddles are too inviting, and I take off my shoes and socks and carry them. Suddenly, I am 10 again, and the memory of running in the rain on a hot day is strong. The puddles are giant oceans and mighty rivers. I have no cares except the wet grass between my toes, and the occasional jagged pebble that hurts the bottom of my foot.

I pass a house, occluded by trees, lights off completely. It looks abandoned. I think of the lost Aztec cities, overgrown and forgotten except by the woodland creatures who live among the rotting ruins. At the time they were inhabited by men, how important the affairs within must have seemed to the residents.

I wonder if that is what my city will look like. I wonder how long will it take for these temperate forests to reclaim what has always been theirs. Two hundred years for the organic and rustable building materials, I guess. Maybe a thousand for the rest to be swamped with so much vegetation that the will scarcely be recognized.

I turn at my sidewalk and approach my house, sadly bidding farewell to my oldest friend.

“How was your walk?” comes the question from the remote-wielding warrior queen on the couch.

“Fine.” She doesn’t really want to know.