Waiting for Rain

I want it to be summer and raining endlessly.
I want it to be the summer our air-conditioning broke
when I spent the evenings lying outside below my window,
the volume turned up and my windows open,
listening to Beatles,
when I wore those horrible blue camouflage pants
with a pink tank top
and all I ate was popsicles.

It didn't rain then, but I want that summer back.
I can superimpose rain on top of a memory,
make it so hard that every drop nearly breaks the roof,
and thunders down through the loblolly pines.

I want it to be hot and humid and sticky,
like sex last summer.

I want it to be hot and forever,
like driving to Michigan, and raining,
like that Thursday,
when we stood there waiting for the tractor
while I ate watermelon in the rain and
shivered when the temperature dropped
40 degrees in an hour
but all I could think about was
getting back to the tent and fixing the tarps
and being useful like that,
because I'm good at something.
I'm good at tarps.

I want it to be the end of junior year
when Sarah and I drove around
in a car I don't have any more
and raced dumb boys and
we went to Coffee on Coffee St.
where Tanya gave us free coffee,
which she eventually got fired for
and she was glad that I'd finally moved on.

That summer it didn't rain because it never does,
and the grass always dies and
by August Sarah was dead.
Her funeral was all chanting and musky oil
and Shannon and Tanya came late.
I wished my mom wasn't there
because I was old enough to be alone
and not cry but shake.

The day after, it rained,
but not enough,
and I'm still waiting for the rest of it.