After a Long Absence—Rain!
For weeks that turned into months nothing fell from the sky but sunlight and moonlight. Delightful as both are, we needed rain. The trees were thirsty, the grass turned to straw, plants begged for water, the ferns longed for the jungle.
And then the rains came. At first in five-minute bursts that would leave the ground almost wet, like someone was spitting down at us. Then came a moderate downfall, where I, returning from an appointment, had all but forgotten how trucks create their own clouds of mist, hard to penetrate while driving.
Today the deluge. I went out early and saved the newspaper before the spigots were turned on full blast.
I live on a street where there are no storm sewers but ditches that carry the water, allegedly by gravity from the street above, down ours, only to race down to the next street. Where it goes from there I have no idea.
Looking out my window, I noticed I had a rivulet of water that was cascading through the tunnel under my driveway and into a larger carrier that would wend the water’s way across the street—where the neighbor’s yard was a pool of standing water. That property had always flooded ever since I’ve lived here, which has been way, way too long. No one ever warns the new people moving in that this will be their fate. But—
This used to be a cohesive neighborhood, where we all knew one another. There were block parties and New Year’s Eve get-togethers. But now, due to deaths and the buying and selling of houses, we’re all strangers. We nod. We say hello. But there’s the absence of community, no trading of plants, advice, gossip. Oh well, that’s the way of the world now.
When I was growing up, far far away from here, I would have to make my way to school in the morning, home for lunch, back to school and home again in all sorts of weather. There were no long lines of cars waiting to pick up precious cargo, even if they lived a mere four blocks away. I could name every single person in every single house along the way—and their dogs, especially the ones to watch out for, when walking or riding my bike.
But even in that childhood, things were changing. The city was expanding. From an ex-urb we became a suburb. But I was long gone by then, visiting only occasionally.
The house I grew up in turned into a trap for my aging mother, a prison of her own making. As the house deteriorated, so did she. It’s sold now to some stranger in a neighborhood of strangers.
But I remember the rain. The rain on the roof. Lying in bed and hearing the comforting, cleansing rain.
Now, when I lie in bed and listen to the rain, I wonder. Is the roof leaking? Is the basement dry? Are the sump pumps working? What about the garage?
It’s hard to be a child with no control over your own life. Maybe it’s harder to be an adult, where being in control of your own life means being responsible for—well everything.
Still, I celebrate the rain, truly nature’s gift to make of us a multi-colored world.