Rain

Rain

Rainy season has arrived in Kampala, later than expected but, according to a climate-change expert I know, not outside the range of historical norms.

The rain slows my Internet, muddies my carpets, makes everything cold and generally bums me out. True, it does also make flowers bloom and whatnot. But right now I’m cold and blue. No flowers are going to fix that.

One summer in Brooklyn I remember it rained every day for a month. When the skies finally cleared I said I hoped I never had to experience rain again; a few months later I moved to the Gobi Desert.

It’s been years since that near-Biblical Summer of Rain in New York, and since them I’ve lived in plenty of rainy places. But still, I don’t like it.

I don’t know if I’m actually depressed or jus sad about a lot of things. I know that people who have experienced real depression can tell that there’s a difference right away, but if you’ve never actually experienced the more serious condition–or if you’re not sure–then it’s hard to tell.

There was a time once when people would ask me, “How are you today?” and I’d always answer “I’m always good.” It was sort of my catchphrase for a year or two. (When I lived in Italy it became “Sempre bene,” which sounds great with a little half-shrug and a smile.) One day, probably around the time of that epic rain-summer, I stopped answering the question that way, and it never came back.

I remember it, though. I want to get back to it somehow. I can’t just say it, though. I need to figure out how to make it so. Then the words will come back naturally. I just don’t know how. My life is good, and while I could complain I know that it’s churlish to do so because, basically, I’m doing all right. But I can’t say I’m always good, or even usually good. I’m good enough, I guess.

Except for the rain.