First Storm of The Season

It is a classic Seattle fall with rain coming down at a steady pace with a slight breeze in the air. I can tell a strong storm is coming by the impending black clouds coming from the shore and knowing this I put together the standards of a fall storm; pulling out the candles and flashlights, vacuuming the house, making a playlist for my iPod, getting a pot of stew going in the slow cooker. I got out the walnuts to feed my favorite wild raven I named George and called to him to come to patio and stock up. I only had to wait about five minutes before George and his fat friend, named Tony, comes over and starts picking up the walnuts and checking the weight of each one, choosing the heaviest for themselves. They are quiet about their task working quickly and constantly checking if other birds are flying by. I get the sense they aren’t into sharing until they have the best. Tony flies off first towards whatever shelter he is using then comes back and starts his picking all over again while George flies to his hiding place. This back and forth goes on for about ten minutes until I assume they got their cache and then they both sat there screaming for others to come and enjoy the bounty. I think I have fulfilled my obligation to the universe today and went back to preparing for the storm. Then I remembered, Margarite, the homeless woman on our block. She is as consistent as the rain in her ritual walk and writing session she has outdoors. I know where about she is everyday and pretty much know what she is doing. So I throw on some quick shoes and jacket and head outside. I stop first at the drug store and pick up a pack of Composition books and some Bics pens. I then go in search of Margarite and wonder how I end up feeding the birds and not the human. About a half a block down Margarite is hollering at her invisible friend about how she was not going to talk his shit anymore (could be a woman she is talking to, I really don’t know cause I can’t see the person). So as I approach wonder if she has a place to go to pass the storm by. Of course she would never tell one way or another. I never speak to her, I just buy the books and pens and leave them in her cart and walk away. I wonder what she writes and could someone one day publish them and keep the money for themselves. I would hate that. She stops talking to her friend long enough to stare at me with her beady eyes and snarl her discontent. I put the books and pens in her cart as she calls me a bitch. I smile cause this is nothing I don’t already know thinking yeah I can be sometimes. There is some part of me that feels we are comrades. Both writers living in Seattle rains. Maybe it’s more than that maybe that is all we have in common. But a part me likes to think that it is enough. Part of me considers her a friend. Getting back to the condo the whole hallway smells like onions and garlic. I have a group meeting with other MS patients that I decide is not worth my time. I really don’t want to be around folk gripping about some disease they can’t do anything about so I change into my loungers and turn on the television news while drinking tea on the chaise lounge. Robert will find me this same position seven hours later. I have to give it to Mom for the raining day lounging….nothing beats it.