Coffee, Rain, and Death

Rumbling thunder is nature’s alarm clock.  There is no better sound to awaken to after a deep slumber.  Laying there, the sound of light rain hitting the leaking roof of this small farmhouse; the sound almost lulls me back to sleep.  I lay there listening to the rain and thunder, the occasional lightning flash adding an eery luminescence to the morning gloom and fog.  I smile, which I rarely do because to me, THIS is a near-perfect day, the only thing missing is my morning breakfast routine.

               I showered and dressed in a kimono, a gift from an old friend who had visited Japan many years ago.  I start the coffee percolator and wash the single dish, fork, coffee mug, and knife, using the dripping rain from the leak in the roof to rinse off the dishes.  Fortunately, the leak is directly over the sink, thus I never have to contend with a mess on the floor.  In a few minutes, the aroma of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee fills the kitchen.  This is what it means to be alive and happy.  I set my table, spread my homemade marmalade on the toast and enjoy the most important meal of the day.

               It’s odd, but every morning I sit here alone in this secluded farm I bought on the cheap a few years ago.  My morning routine never changes, it is the one constant I can control in an ever-changing climate and world.  I live day to day with that terminal illness called ‘life’. I’ve opened the window and kitchen door and feel the cool wind against my chest and face, as lovely as a woman’s caress, a touch I’ve not known for several decades.  Climate change has changed the entire world and the lands here in rural South-Eastern Illinois are in places barren; devoid of all but the most scraggly of weeds and brush, the occasional dead still standing.  Thankfully, the cleansing rains fall almost daily, doing what it can to cleanse the air.

               You never know when your time is up, and I smirk, thinking of how it is I wait for Death every morning with anticipation; and Death has arrived, right on time.  I see her sitting on the window sill, her soft purring loud compared to the pouring rains coming down.  She came into my life ten years ago, a small black and white kitten, only a few weeks old.  I was bringing in the firewood, having left the door open for ease of entry. After closing the door on the last armload I noticed her sitting on my chair, cleaning her paws without a care in the world.  She immediately crawled into my arms and I wept.  I had forgotten how it is, in a world where people are horrible, that animals, cats, in particular, are the only real joy one can have.  I fed her on the table, grabbing the morning paper and leaning back while sipping my coffee.  I look at the date and I close my eyes thinking I really should get a more update newspaper to read.  This one I have read, daily, for the past two years.

               The rain is coming down harder now and the leak is dripping faster.  The rumbling is louder.  Death tolerates the rain.  She jumps into my arms and buries her head into my shoulder.  I stroke her between the ears, reassuring her against the noise I find refreshing.  I hear a noise from within the walls.  I exhale in exasperation.  Another squirrel has fallen between the walls and is trying to find a way out.  I hate squirrels; they remind me of the mindless masses who like lemmings will follow each other to their doom because of their base stupidity.  I suppose that isn’t fair to the squirrels, but I hate them none the less.

               The rains have lightened up and are a light rain again, the lightning in the distance now and Death has relaxed.  I place Death on the table and go to my library, a collection of books and tomes I’ve collected over fifty years and every subject imaginable.  On a morning like this, I grab my copy of HOWL, by Allen Ginsberg.  I go out to the porch, a new addition just a few years ago and, coffee and book in one hand and Death in the other, we sit comfortably, Death on my lap sound asleep to the sounds of pouring rain.  I listen and I hear a sound I’ve not heard in all my time here in solitude; a dog barking in the distance.

               I stand, and tears fall down my face again.  I see a small dog approach cautiously, soaked to the bone.  He must have had an owner at one time because upon my calling him to me he came onto the porch.  He lay down and tentatively wagged his tail.  I looked heavenward and muttered, ‘Thank you, Lord, thank you!”  I ran inside made an egg placed it on my plate and took it out and he ate it without hesitation.  Poor, starving dog.  I sat back with joy.  I knew he’d be staying but then thought, ‘How will Death take a dog in the house?”  After the dog was done he walked to me and lay down against my feet.  Death walked over and started licking the dog’s head, his tail wagging In earnest now.

               This was Heaven, and I’d never been happier.  Then, I started weeping again.  ‘Dear Lord, what will happen to my cat and dog when I die?’  My answer, thunder, and rain.

               “How long does he stand there like that?”

               “When it’s raining like it is now, he can stand there all day.”

               “Huh. He been here long?”

               “About three years. They brought him in one day screaming about his cat and dog dying because of nuclear war.  The sad thing is, there wasn’t any evidence of any cat or dog at his place except for overflowing dog and cat food dishes.  He hasn’t been out of a straight-jacket since his arrival.”

               “Wow. A real crazy, huh?”

               “Well, this is an asylum. Come on, we have more rounds to make.”

               Patient 19712211 looked out the window at the pouring rain and smiled.  A flash of lightning; a glance upward.  A tiny, black kitten was on the window sill, the small awning overhead keeping her out of the rain.  Death had finally come for me to the sound of rumbling thunder, nature’s alarm clock.