And we sat on the porch and chattered into the late afternoon,
bubbly from the run, perhaps, or whatever freedom the summer
had gifted us, the sound on the roof like a permission slip, a tiptoe tune
of ease. I realized how much weight we carry, how we clamber
through our lives heavy as old rock. It’s not our bodies that do it, but the layers
we cloak them with, doubting our own instinct for happiness. I wondered
if, in fact, age could be a molting if I let it, a sloughing off of skepticism, tears
in the stiff fabric of my own mind. The drops intensified, and I surrendered
to a riotous music, and we sat in silence for a while, both attentive and serene.
It’s impossible, of course, to start completely over, but still I felt washed clean.
It’s been a dark and dreary morning, with the sound of a distant storm meandering its’ way in our direction. I wait with anticipation, until finally, it arrives.
With it, comes the comforting sound of raindrops tap, tap, tapping against the window pane. The running water etches a circuitous path downhill, and huge rain puddles are sure to attract the delighted child.
My fried plants are drinking greedily, knowing that, in our drought-stricken area, the life-giving water is a gift. One that cleanses and nourishes all that it touches. Like manna from heaven, it is our salvation.