Buddha with a Cell Phone

David Romtvedt

The dark sky opens and it starts to rain. I go outside to stand in the stream, the longed-for gift of water where it hasn’t rained for so long. I shout and dance with the dog, who puts his ears back and licks my nose. When we come back in, he shakes and I do too, a few drops flying off my hair. I notice the Buddha sitting on my desk. He’s a rubber Buddha in a yellow robe. If you squeeze him he squeaks. He’s got a radiant smile on his face, his eyebrows happy half-moons over his eyes. As I stare at him my wife walks by and with a cheery Buddha-like glint says, “It’s raining.” In his right hand the Buddha’s got a cappuccino and in his left a cell phone pressed to his ear. His lips are closed so I know he’s listening, not talking. One more thing—I pick up a little kaleidoscope lying next to the Buddha and lift it to my eye to look outside. I thought it would make the raindrops glitter through the autumn-dry corn but instead what I see looks like the ceiling of a great cathedral. I whirl around and am presented with the image of a thousand rubber Buddhas, each one a drop of rain, falling, ready to hit the ground.