summer rain

 All of the wondrous things in life require some degree of shame or at least a slight possibility of it. 

Swing dancing, singing, sharing art, sex, drinking more than 3 glasses of wine; you could burn dinner, or confess a secret, or sing off-key, no act of self-expressive love can be exempt from embarrassment. 

After drinking an $8 cup of tea that tasted like the moon, I did not feel embarrassed to cry; in July it is normal to be listless and slip in your shoes. I did not feel embarrassed to sweat, to weep for July's sweetness and its odd bounty of pleasance. When the rain started to fall and merge with the tears on my face I did not go in my car to escape its stickiness. I turned my face up for the sky of a month where things must be pushed to fill the end of a summer. 

When the permeance of rain's acidic scent burned my mind, I thought about why we call sponge cakes "angel cakes". I thought of how much sweeter fruits taste in July and my life, I suddenly realize, is July. Childhood is June, old age is August, and my life, my year, my shame is July inside of July.