Naomi Davidson

Painting in the Rain

The letter came when it was raining and I had been looking for my notebook for three days. I see the postman from my second-story bedroom window and jog down the stairs, hoping to grab the mail from him before he slides it into the swimming pool in the bottom of my letterbox. The new box, that didn’t have a rusted hole in the roof, was sitting in the garage, waiting for a sunny day that hadn’t come. Three months and it hadn’t stopped raining. I can’t even work. I had plans to use the basement as a studio but the foundations leak and water runs down the walls, making it feel like a mountain cave, complete with ambient dripping noises.