The Rain

The soft May rain that you can just see out of the corner of your eye; the rain, lashed by the wind, that shudders the windows on a November night; the rain that turned the creek into a torrent, washing the leaves we used as boats down the culvert; the rain after two long, hot weeks in August that coaxes up the earthy smell from the asphalt; the rain that threatened your wedding day; the rain that fell all morning the day of their funerals; the rain in the distance across the desert, white towering clouds inching eastward; the rain you had to walk home in without a coat; the smell of the rain mixed with sweat, perfume, denim, and leather in the crowded university coffee shop; the rain they predicted that never came; the rain that delighted your daughter with a huge mud puddle to jump in; the rain that gives way to birdsong and russet sunsets over the western mountains; the rain that turned to snow and lost its voice to the winter night; the rain that spat out daggers of lightning and made your plane change course; the rain that lets the gills of trout and sticky feet of salamanders navigate their way through hidden deeps and decaying caves of bark; the rain that you lean into, pressing for home; the rain that falls overnight and makes vibrant the greens and golds of a spring morning at first light; the rain while you are waiting for the bus; the rain the day you buried the cat, and for three days after; the dancing water skippers that mimic rain on the lake just at dawn, momentarily confusing both fish and fishermen; the rain, blue in the ocean, red in our veins, black like pools of oil under the midnight streetlamp; the rhythm of the rain, its weight on leaves and the silver jewels it leaves behind on spiders’ webs; the rain that makes everything, everywhere possible; the rain the day you knew she was gone; the rain running down icicles as the thaw begins; the rain hissing out from the wet alder in the wood stove; the rain picking up speed as you row for shore; the rain on the roof that you fell asleep to as a child; the same rain that ushers you there again, the better part of a lifetime later.