3 min read

A Rainy Day Love Letter

A Rainy Day Love Letter

☔️ Fall is full of rainy days, and we love them.

A well-placed convex mirror on a tree adjacent to a hidden driveway reflects us.  Your tiny finger pressed against the glass; you see you, you see me.

I brought the camera out on this walk because I wanted pictures of you, now. I want to always remember you in your tiny blue raincoat covered in flowers, your matching hair-clip, your smile, your big curious blue eyes. I’m writing this for the same reasons.

Your exploring hand, a fifth the size of mine, wet from exploring each and every puddle. There’s a lot of puddles to explore.

Walking fifty feet takes twenty minutes and it’s all wonderful.

Splash! Splash! Splash!

Your boots in each puddle, your dancing legs, your rosy cheeks, the noises you make that are quickly approaching words. Each round orange friend on every stoop gets a wave and a “puff” noise from your lips as you point wildly and try and try to say pumpkin.

You’ll get there soon, pumpkin.

You see each dog well before I do, sounding the “Daaawggeeee” alarm, pointing and smiling and waving all at the same time. The neighborhood dogs know you, as do their owners, as the little girl who loves dogs.

The pooches and puppies approach with their exuberance to be met briefly by the shyest little lady, and then as they go in for a kiss, or let you pet them, you warm up instantly, “Oh hello, friend, how are you today? So good to see you!” And you laugh and smile; the dogs tell you jokes only you can hear.

The leaves are finally their bright orange and I’m reminded of just a year ago, when you would lie in your bassinet stroller looking up, cooing at them. It was before you could point. But you were pointing. You’ve always chatted with trees, even at four months old, but now you hold their fallen leaves in your hand, knowing their magic and their stories.

The rain starts again and your back to the puddles, each step and splash a very triumphant, “can you believe this?!” And you grab at your mom and at me. You need to makes sure we know.

Your tiny hand holds tight to my finger, tighter than I would imagine possible, but you’re so strong and brave, already, I shouldn’t be surprised.

We walk home, your tiny arms stretched up to us. It’s fall and the rain is here and the dark falls early, it’s time to say good night to the puddles, the doggies, the bright orange leaves and the pumpkins of all sizes. They’ll be here tomorrow, waiting for you, and for years and years to come.

A bunch of essays, photos and thoughts by Pat Castaldo.