Rainy days were made for drifting. Somehow getting trapped indoors, is like getting trapped inside one’s head.

For others, rain is invigorating. My Mom always got the urge to go shopping on rainy days.

Rain can also be restful. I know someone who says he falls asleep faster to the sound of rain on the roof.

But for me, I guess I’m a rainy-day drifter. Rainy days have always been a time of sorting for me. I piece together scraps of memory.

On rainy days as a child I would turn to sorting the contents of an antique buffet in our dining room. Not that I hadn’t sorted through the items collected there countless times, but they were always a source of renewed fascination.

Within a shallow, felt-lined top drawer meant for storing silver pieces, was a vast array of junk, but no silver. In a hard, pocket-sized blue-velvet lined case was my Dad’s high school drafting tools.

The protractors and other gleaming instruments always looked slightly medical to me. They came in handy for removing the tonsils or appendix of an ailing doll.

In the drawer was also an abalone handled cuticle knife, dry fountain pens and several postcards. I’d give a cursory glance at messages written long ago from people I’d never met, but one postcard provided an absolute religious experience for me.

The postcard had a likeness of Jesus with his eyes closed in prayer. The image was much like the Head of Christ painted by Warner Sallman in the 1930s, a copy of which hung in my parents’ bedroom.

Except the postcard Jesus was facing straight on. I would take the postcard into my parents’ closet and close the door. Once in total darkness, the postcard Jesus would slowly open His eyes!

Yes. The penetrating gaze was slightly accusatory, making me feel guilty for stuff I hadn’t even done—yet.

This was a delightfully freaky experience, but I didn’t stay in there long. I would see how fast I could open the door, trying to catch the postcard with its eyes open in broad daylight, but to no avail. Shut. Praying. Every time.

The next postcard I unearthed bore the likeness of Adolf Hitler.

This Hitler appeared somewhat flushed. Just his head and shoulders protruded from the bowl of a commode and he was crying, “Goodbye, cruel world!”

I suppose I should be able to make some astute observation about the juxtaposition of a praying Jesus and a departing Hitler in the same postcard collection, but for the life of me it escapes me.