When Oregon rains the voices in the room soften. She comes in with the softness of a newborn’s blanket and eases her way in like the subtle rising of a crowd; one clap at a time, one drop at a time. When Oregon rains, I can actually feel her breath upon me, the coastal tides and the pine scented fog rolls in as she sings her tunes.
When Oregon rains, I can sit on the highway and not feel so mundane. My commuter rage fuses into a calm awakening, that some things in life are temporary, including the rain.
When Oregon rains, I can sit in my window sill like my childhood cat; press the side of my face against the cold glass and watch the parade of soaked shoes hurry onto the bus. When the bus continues down Hawthorne Street, the warning lights begin to melt like watercolors: reds and oranges dripping onto the asphalt.
Sometimes, when Oregon rains, I talk a long walk and let her fall apart on me. It always feels good to let someone cry on your shoulder; Lord knows how many times I have cried on hers.
Oregon has welcomed me into many homes and many rooms with many faces. But when Oregon rains, it all feels like one bed to crawl in: mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends and neighbors; cuddled under grandma’s quilt with our toes sticking out, just to feel what is like when Oregon rains.