rain

Rain on a late Thursday night. Beating fingertip sounds against the roof of my Saab, with me inside and the leather seats smell familiar like crayons. The buzz that sounds from somewhere near the broken clock on the dashboard continues with the engine off, familiar hum. Tires on a familiar spot of the driveway. Settle in. I settle in without thought of the door handle, of the inside rooms of my house, of work waiting, of catching up on days. Rain on a late Thursday night and I am me inside my car.

I think of rain like literature and like loneliness, the storm that pours on Lear when he walks across the heath, heartbroken. He thinks no one loves him, but somebody does. I think of rain like how it sounded to cummings, how he knew someone with smaller hands. I think of rain like music, think of Norah Jones and wonder if she really has a tin roof to listen to its falling.

I think of rain in terms of puddles, of the Dell surging up in fullness, of small streams down the side of my street, of the picture I saw on the news once of a man floating on a piece of wood on a river of rain where a highway was. I think of little and BIG. I think of two things at once, how rain is quiet but then it is L O U D, think of all the drops bumping into each other. I think of rain like students in a marching band drum solo competition, all pounding away with vigor, intensity- afraid of what their parents will say if they don’t outshine, win the award.

I think of rain and what it means when it’s absent. I think of dryness, how we crave rain then. I think of heat, how we pray for rain then. I think of sunshine, how then we wish for rain never to come again. Strange.

And then when I stop thinking of everything else, I think of You, who knows the rain. You who knows that the Magnolia tree in the front of my house still needs rain to grow, no matter how big it seems. You who could count the drops, who could match the beat of each hit against my roof in perfect rhythm with Your perfect hands. I think of You who wrung out the white cotton clouds into this perfect gift of water that I sit here, alone and not alone, listening to. The here of where I find you in my dark street with my lit windows and I’m outside them, and the yellow pollen is falling to the ground - in my car, in the driveway, in the shadow of my house, in the palm of Your hand.