Remember when I told you I thought good happened when it rained? I still kind of believe that.

Rain cleans us—it’s water falling from the sky to wash the smells and dirts of weeks gone by,
it’s water rushing down to drum on our heads and windows and roofs and roads,
it’s water flowing to rinse our thoughts and clear our heads,
it’s water.

There has been some bad that has happened to me when it rained.
There’s been some bad that I’ve done when it rained.

I still believe what rain can mean.


There’s different kinds of rain—

—there’s the soft mist, like the one that descended from the
firmament to the Garden of Eden to replenish it,
or like the mist that comes out of the pipes
and descends on our veggies
in the produce aisle
gently caressing,
wrapping in a
that makes you shiver a little and pull your arms a little closer.

—there’s the sprinkle on the windshield, when you’re driving and it isn’t enough to
have your wipers on (lest they squeak-and-smear across the glass), but you have to
flick the switch once or twice, every few minutes, to see outside, to drive on, to
avoid crashing.

—there’s the Patter-on-the-Window-Sill from the vaguenimbostratus overhead, rapping out a little drummer’s riff—a blend of the rain and the drippings from the roof above. Or it Rattles and Taps on the fall leaves outside, turning the bright Yellow-Orange-Red into a decomposingbrown, the Crisp-Crunch into slimemud.

—there’s the loud firehose rush of raving raging thunderstorms crackling overhead and slamming gallons of water into the trees and the ground and the muddy driveway and your soaking frame that forgot to bring a raincoat and it won’t stop soon since the thunder just picked up and you knew the storm was coming because you saw it on the radar and you saw the flashes far away and heard the rumbles coming and felt the SEVERE STORM WATCH buzz through on your phone but you forgot your raincoat the one thing that could’ve kept you reasonably dry through all this and now the rain slops off your skin while you fumble with your keychain to get your key the right key to unlock the door but you’re wet and cold and tired and just want to:
get inside.

—there’s the windy slam of raiin thorough a storm cauuguuht up in the fierce lake effect breeze, with the water flung throu the turbulent atmosfphere like a a mad toddler””s toys caug ht up in a tanntnrum..


It finally started raining, do you hear it?

The thunder had been bumbling about up north, lightning making it easy to see the keys, humidity sticking my back to my wall.

Now it’s finally coming down in that gentle first wave with a soft breeze, raindrops slowly getting bigger and bolder, pinging off gutters and signs alike, the first hints of the wet ozone tainting and electrifying the air.

That rainy wave gathers speed, increases frequency, the pinging getting into a solid thwack as the drops grow.

The tension builds.

The storm builds.

The rain comes.

It stops, and for a moment, it’s quieter, and the energy coils up…

…and all of a sudden it’s upon us, and we scramble for the windows to keep the wet from blowing in and soaking our beds and books and bodies.

These bigger drops, this faster rate, this cooled air.

Sometimes it sounds indecisive, little bursts of intensity then the letting up into ease, “ebb and flow” comes unwanted to mind—but it isn’t naturally ebbing and flowing, it’s being deliberately poured, doling out what is right for each metre, centimetre, millimetre of land.

It overcorrects a couple times, then underserves—a pendulum swung through flood and drought.

Then the storm calms, and the only water heard is the roll of drops off the roof and into the gutters.

The air chills, humidity’s slobbery tongue wags its way off-stage.

Rumbles of thunder, only generally can we guess where it’s coming from, hint at the storm that just passed or a second wave of rain that yet comes.