A Rainy Day with the Twins


Staring out at the pouring rain from the living room of my parents house, I pause in the playful revelry with my niece and nephew. They join me at the window, watching as the drops plop into the puddles. On this house-bound day (no Radio Flyer ride around the block), there is comfort inside the house, on the carpeted floor and blanket-strewn couch, in the warmth of a tuna casserole for lunch.

They’re growing up quickly – already talking and saying things that are both wise and silly, touching and funny – and I want to still time, to reverse the falling rain or at least slow the descent of the season. I only see them about once a month, and I realize it’s not enough.

When I first met my Uncle Roberto, I was already about ten years old. He had been in the Philippines and Israel for all my life, but from that first snowy day in December I was instantly enamored. We only got to see him once or twice a year, and for that reason our time together was all the more special. In its rarity was a treat, in his absence was a longing. I’m hoping to strike some sort of balance, to be as beloved, if more present.

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