Rain

When I woke up, rain was pounding the roof outside our bedroom window. A strong wind filled our room with fresh air and made the boughs of the river birch dance.

I could hear Boy in Black’s cell phone alarm going off, so I woke him up. He needed to leave at 7 am for an Ultimate tournament. 

“It’s been raining for hours,” I told him as he stumbled sleepily through the kitchen.

“Good,” he said. “That will make the fields softer. It’s been like playing on cement.”

Once he’d left, the house was quiet. The teenagers who had been up late playing cards were asleep on the floor, each body rolled into a quilt. Poker chips and empty cups were still scattered over the kitchen table; they’d used a bedsheet as a tablecloth. Outside the glass door, I could see the lilacs bending into the rain.

I thought of all the projects I could get started on. I’ve been on a spring cleaning binge lately, and I’ve also vowed to work on my book every day. I’ve got stuff to prepare for some meetings this week as well.

But rainy days are for sleeping. When I went back up to the bedroom, the windowsill was wet from the splashing rain, but I didn’t close the window. The house has been so hot and humid lately that the cool air was welcome. I’d find a cloth later, and wipe the windowsill dry, but for now, I left the window open and went back to bed.