In Wallace Stevens' "Apostrophe to Vincentine," he describes Vincentine's dress as being "whited green." "Your dress was green/ was whited green/ green Vincentine." I think about Vincentine's dress when I sit in the waiting room of my psychiatrist's office. These days, he likes to say that I've brought the rain with me. When I first started visiting his office I had waited anxiously for the rain. These days it pours Emerald similar to the taffeta that I imagine Vincentine's dress initially was. Many summers ago, on the terrace of my grandmother's chalk blue house, I felt a rain not dissimilar from the one that hammers down on the roof of the Solace Center. At the Solace Center they live up to their name, but the rain that washed me in shades of green had me soaking it in, much more like solace, next to the pale pink Antigone growing freely between the pastel blue pillars of the terrace. Those days I didn't have a psychiatrist, but I suppose I was not yet whited green. These days, I feel whited green in that I take my taffeta and brush over it repeatedly in acts of sheer panic that I feel on days the sun is too bright for my unsightly mind. I wear this diagnosis as a dress that's painted gouache. My dress is awfully opaque in contrast with the glimmering emerald of the rain that I bring with me.