Notes from the Small Pond: Rain


Your eyes break open sometime in the midnight, the sound of rain pelting the ground outside your window, like bullets in the dirt. You look toward the ceiling and the gauzy curtains you hung last autumn drift up, above your face, as rain-cooled air presses through the cracked-open window, like angel wings flying. Thunder, distant and low, reminds you how small everything is in the world and your eyes drift closed again, and the sound of rain gets louder. The smell of wet dust.

Behind your eyelids and listening to the rain, you remember the time, as a child, you got caught in a storm when you and your mom were at the park, the two of you running through the rain, her carrying a blanket, you carrying a yellow toy truck, vainly dodging rain drops, zig-zagging toward the safety of the car, her laughing, covering her mouth, tipping her head back, her face to the pouring sky, you slightly terrified, but satisfied, being with your mother, after all, and safe. You remember how beautiful she was and miss her and the missing makes you ache and the muscles in your back flex and you press your eyelids together, like shutting something.

Outside your window, the rain intensifies, and your eyes open again, your instincts bordering on alarm. A small boost of adrenaline courses through you and you draw a deep breath and exhale, slowly, urging yourself back to sleep. But the driving rain is un-ignorable and compels you to pay attention to it, like something alive, so you open your eyes again and listen and breath to the rhythm of your tired heart beating, the black sky above you ripped open, broken, pouring.