Moth radio hour

I took myself to breakfast yesterday. Nothing fancy. I went to a local fast food place, bought a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit and a cup of coffee. Then I drove to a local park.

And parked.

Simple. Straight forward. And something I've done hundreds of times.

I was listening to the Moth Radio hour as I drove home. Ttrue stories told by people in front of live audiences. Yesterday's stories revolved around mothers.

Of course memories of my own mother began to gather and pour through my mind. A deluge of guilt and nagging questions that can never really be put to rest now.

These thoughts drifted around me as I rounded the mall drive. Almost drowning out the radio. Almost carrying me away from the business of consciously watching the road. Almost.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a drop of water hit the windshield in front of me and trickled down the glass, followed by five more drops, it took me a minute to realize they were only on half the windshield. My half.

Where did they come from? I told myself they must have dripped off of something, but what? There were no trees or tall posts there and I was moving. The first drop was at one place, the five drops were farther down the road.

Can rain do that?

I felt as if my mother had reached out to me; that I had somehow just experienced a very natural but very unusual connection. With myself if nothing else.

If it was my mother what was she saying? That I was right, I should feel sad and guilty, or that everything was okay and she didn't want me to feel sad?

If it was anything at all, I hope it was the latter. And that hope sort of makes it real.