The sound of silver drops caressing the leaves nearly undid me. A mostly quiet night, resting at the little table on the porch. I was enjoying the breeze and the scent of pansies when I noticed the horizon turning nightshade, a "wine-dark sea" overhead.
And me without my bireme.
No matter, I was captaining a patio chair, with cookies as boon companions and rations for the trip I wanted to take. My body stayed put, but the heart and mind were off the leash. I closed my eyes. I drew in a deep breath and the scent of good green things flowed into my lungs, along with the fresh scent of the rain beginning to fall to starboard of my porch rail. The patter of water rose to my ears, the tears of Tlaloc uncoiling the spring in the pit of my stomach.
Time stopped. In that slice of infinity, I recalled home and love, and hands the touch of which I miss. But the rain was falling, and the good green things will grow.
They will grow.