Waiting for Rain

We emerged from the theater to discover darkened skies hinting at rain. The drive home from town (our fifth round-trip voyage in three days) was quiet as the fatigue of the weekend began settling in. Our last activity after far too many over the past three days with a blessed evening to ourselves on the horizon.

Once home, we drag ourselves out of the car into the blistering heat of the day, sticking to us, and we warm the leftovers, throw together a salad, toast what's left of the rosemary and olive oil bread as the wind kicks up outside and there's a rumble of thunder, distant, and barely audible.

We finish eating, hurriedly, and make our way for the back porch facing west grabbing chairs to support the watching of the storm rolling in holding on to the wish, the prayer, the need for the sweet redemption of rain. Are we weird? I never see other neighbors watching storms like we do, next door she's shaking out a rug but no acknowledgment of the storm rolling in and the thunder overhead and I remember growing up waking in the middle of the night to watch the thunder storms come through, my dad as excited as a kid in a carnival as the lightning lit up the sky counting 1-2-3-4-5-6-7 five for every mile how close was that one? And the wind kicks up hard and heavy bringing with it the scent of alfalfa from the field just past the irrigation ditch. The electric warmth of rain out there somewhere and the stories-tall cottonwood its leaves rustling wildly, its branches contorting and I'm thinking maybe this is the time, and my pulse quickens as I watch the branches aloft, being thwarted furiously towards me thinking maybe this will be the moment when the powerful micro-burst finally strips this enormous tree from its roots and torpedoes it onto my house should we go in would we be any safer in the house?

And we wait, for the rain, for the drops to fall like a curtain, as though in its soaking, there would be redemption--a respite from the heat in the asphalt, the dust on the weeds, the webs between the shrubs. As though the drops we would allow to fall on our faces would become a cleansing--from the argument of yesterday afternoon, the worry in his work, the difficulties and frustrations for a daughter far from home, and the uncertainty of when her life, their lives will get back to normal if there ever is to be a normal again.

And we wait, for that promise, for that hope--in the rain, in the wind to blow it all away and then the rain to come down and wash the world, our worlds, clean, cool, and clear once again.

Still waiting, waiting for rain.

Comments

[susan opel]

Oh, your fabulous penchant for words! Love this for all of its deep meaning and the lyrical turns of phrase.

And no, you are not weird. Beth and I stood outside on our patio marveling at the beauty of the summer storm. I just wish that it would rain hard enough to wash all of the dirt off my car!