postmodern artists of the rainy season

were xavi the type of kid to err on the side of realistic, he would have never encouraged us to barbecue. 

(last night, it rained harder and longer than any night all year, and continued into the day, pausing, only sporadically throughout the afternoon, as if mirroring the stop and go traffic of the very city streets it had had now stained wet). 

rather, xavi is one with the, second-to-none gift of pressing pause to that which is realistic in order to play out that which is imaginative; to engage all that permits him to add color, to add life, and pour himself into that which is lacking.  

so when i say, let's grill tonight, he says, i'll make rice and vegetables. 

when i say, let's invite amanda and duke, he says, i'll call them;

and i'll bring mack too. 

and every so often, despite our dirty dishes and the living room tiles stained with muddy footprints, we strike gold; and the clouds open up, long enough to let us stoke a few hot coals; music plays on the stereo, and we scatter about the house, each at our own task, each at our own best, with a thousand things on our minds, and a single reason to let it all fade to the dawning of how good it is to be with people who truly love you, long enough to enjoy a meal, clean the dishes and stick around a little longer to tease mack for still being in his school clothes.  

were xavi the type of kid to err on the side of realistic, we'd both have gone to bed a long time ago,  yet, still a few more drops of color in today, we talk midnight into june second, and call ourselves the postmodern artists of the rainy season; saying goodnight through tired bones before stumbling into our rooms at opposite ends of the house.