The weather has been the primary topic of conversation all day—this morning I put on a wool sweater and a hoody before heading out into the unrelenting rain—July in Vancouver resembles January in Vancouver—I checked the weather app on my iPhone and it forecasts more of the same for at least the next seven days—this was not what I envisioned for my summer at the Waldorf—I saw myself dressed in shorts and a t-shirt drinking iced tea on the patio in the late afternoon sun—that hasn’t materialized—my old school black suede Pumas wait impatiently by the door for a chance to be let out onto summer’s sticky hot tarmac—I hear them sigh as every morning I pull on my Blundtstones to endure another day of trudging through the puddles that now link together Vancouver neighborhoods like a series of lakes—
I’m reminded of the Ray Bradbury short story “All Summer in a Day” that is set on a jungle planet where the sun only materializes for two hours every seven years—the protagonist writes a poem that has the lines,
“I think the sun is a flower,
that blooms for just one hour”
Right now even an hour would be celebrated—
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