“Say hi to Auntie Punky!”
I hear my nieces’ giggles on the other end, and, of course, the call is dropped, because I am in a church basement, after all. I am standing in front of an ancient but awesome looking backgammon set in a leather bound case for only one dollar, and wondering if my brother-in-law already has one or if this would make a good Christmas gift.
And for only 50 cents, I find a present for myself:
Oh, rainbows. What is your magic? What is it that you do to me?
Sure, you are special, rare, and perhaps the reason why I sometimes fantasize about living in the Pacific Northwest.
I am not alone in being mesmerized by your formation. Magical folklore is written on you from centuries past. (All you science-y types here are probably being all like, ‘well, actually, atmosphere and light spectrum blah blah and it is very easy to explain why the sky is blue,’ blah blah. I am ignoring you.)
I used to draw rainbows when I was a kid, every time some cranky adult would say, ‘Shh. Go sit in the corner and color,’ (please use imaginary old man grandpa grumpy and annoyed voice when you read that phrase).