この 20 年 以上 、わたしは 雨靴 を持っていなかった。 雨 が 降 るた び に、ス ニ ーカ ーを 履 いて、 水 たまりを 避 けて 歩 くのは 面倒 だったが、 雨 の日のた め だけに 靴 を 買 うこともまた、 面倒 だったのだ。 でも、 雨靴 で 水 たまりに 突 っ 込 んでいく 楽 しさときたら！わたしはこんな 楽 し みを何 十 年も 知 らないできたなんて！
さあ、 起 き出してコーヒーを 淹 れよう。
そして 雨靴 を 履 いて仕事に 行 こう
Kery Rowden, LCSW from the Center for Psychoanalytic Study - Houston
On April 1, a small woman moved into the apartment next door. A small woman with a big footprint. Oy, the stuff. Boxes and boxes of it. She must have come from somewhere with a lot of room. It took a couple of guys the whole day to bring it all in, up and down the stairs they went, toting boxes and furniture and God knows what until their blue t-shirts with the drawing of a muscled Atlas turned dark and their faces dripped. I hope she gave them a tip. Back and forth, up and down, the hot, humid air rising up the stairs, filling the hallway. At least it wasn’t raining. That would have been a mess. It was Good Friday. Easter was late. Or was it early? I never understood those holidays that move around on the calendar. What I do know is that it was hot early. I mean, it’s mostly hot in New Orleans, but what people don’t know is that it’s not hot all the time. Sometimes it’s really cold, but what it mostly is is wet.
As he was about to address the assembled guests he couldn’t find his voice any more. He felt Amanda’s hand on his thigh, gently, tenderly. He put his hand on hers, breathed deeply, closed his eyes, then opened them again, taking in the faces around the table, these people that he loved, waiting, patient, still. He felt the familiar weight settle on his shoulders, sink into his chest. He wished his father were there, missed his resonant voice, his steadiness. But his father was gone.
Her attention was drawn to a piece of paper on the desk. Mother quickly stood, slipping the paper into the writing box, a gift from Father. “Darling,” she said coolly. “What are you doing here? Where is Irena?” “She’s gone out.” “Out? What about your lessons?” “I
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