I got up a little before 6 this morning and walked into the quiet of the kitchen to make some coffee. Just off the kitchen is a sliding glass door that faces east, so it was light enough for me to see what I was doing without the overhead light on. I heard a metallic ping come from the vent over the stove and for a second I thought that maybe it was raining. When it does rain, the sound of the drops is broadcast from the stove exhaust. It’s like we’ve got a little six-inch tin roof in the kitchen to make nice rainy sounds. It makes great howling wind sounds, too.
It’s not raining, though, and probably won’t for another couple of months. But, for the fraction of a second that my mind was thinking "Rain!" the rest of my body relaxed a little.
I’m ready for a good rain, the kind that starts near the end of a hot day. The kind that announces itself by the smell in the air, by catching the corner of your eye as darker grey spots appear on the sidewalk, by a swell in the wind. The kind that starts off gently enough to get the bikes put up and roll up the car windows without having to run around. Then you come inside and take off your shoes, open all the doors, sit and watch. Growing up in Texas meant a lot of thunderstorm watching. In Houston, especially. I remember sitting in the front yard of my dad’s house, sometimes stretched out on my back on the hood of the car, the neighbors in lawn chairs, watching the lightening make its way across the sky and always, always counting the seconds until the thunder came.
I’m ready for it to start raining; to watch the kids step out of their boots on the front porch, shake their heads, hand me their wet jackets as they come inside looking for something to eat. I’m ready to wake up early on a Sunday to the rain, and to bring blankets to the couch and curl up with the kids and just listen.