One stormy midwestern day
The air is warm with humidity.
I sniff, and it smells full of growing things, full of the green of the midwestern summer.
The pitter patter comes fast, an insistent rhythm drumming on leaves
on branches
on patio.
R and I sit. We’ve dragged her chairs from the dining room, into the kitchen to the double doors to watch, to feel the fresh rainy air in through the screen.
Bam! A cracking sound. A small some one up stairs is fighting with another. R goes up to play ref, then comes back.
Boom. A distant thunder, then more rain…
We talk and talk, about anything and everything, about news, the new, the old. About being told we are too old, or worried that we are, and about new prospects. The rain came from somewhere, it’ll be back. It’s new today, and different, but the same. It’ll always come back. It’s renewing, it’s life-giving. It doesn’t care what I do. It’s comforting in its constance and its reliable indifference.
I breathe in.
Photo by Pedro Cunha @pedrotiagocunha via Unsplash, as I am usually too busy gawking at thunderstorms to catch them on camera. Thanks Pedro.