My father taught me to love the rain on the roof.  To sit quiet and let its patter, pattern, pitter pool in the caves of my eyes. To understand that it slides away with some of that tightness that lives at the top of my skull.

This morning, I am sitting in my office – she is here, too, propped up and stretched out on Mom’s crazy quilt on the bed behind me.  We sit and listen, quiet.

Rain.

Dad taught me to listen, perhaps because listening has been the thing that has taken his most intense effort all his life. His one ear dead, entire, his other dulled by equipment and effort.  65% of the sound gone.

But not the rain.

There is much mercy in the world.

My father gave me the ears, the heart, the need to speak and be heard. My mother gave the words – pages and pages of them in books that lined shelves and from her heart – the letters she wrote, the quiet stories she told, the note she sang over them on every car ride. I suspect she gave them to my father, too, because now his stocky, strong fingers wrap around pages every time I see him.

Still, the language for rain sits just outside of my mouth.  The drops don’t dance, nor do they run.  They don’t fall, or they don’t fall only.  Is each drop one thing or many? When does a drop cease to be itself?

Today, I settle in to listen, give over my tongue to my ears.  Rest here while she naps under the metal roof behind me.

The rain – solace, grace, reminder of shelter, gift.

What do you feel about rain?