I listen to wet tires whoosh down Walker Avenue. I hear soft rain piddle its tune upon wet stone. They are bits of grace, from a soft Irish rain falling outside my window.
A rain like this always soothes my spirit. It makes me drowsy. It makes me long for the comfort of my soft bed. And even though it’s on the cool side — mid-fifties, I think — I’m going to crack my bedside window and cuddle up in warm blankets.
It has been a dry Spring. The parched dirt must be quenching its thirst with this lovely Irish blessing. The garden glistens like glass. Twenty-four hours of straight rain has made my garden happy and plump with wet green.
What is it about a gentle rain that fills me with hope? It makes me think baptism. I feel wash cleaned. Fresh. The rain makes all things new. The rain is holy, like that dove that swept down from heaven, all those years ago.
Perhaps a small drop will cure my spider bite scar, that even a week later, is still warm and tender with fever. Or better yet, maybe it could wipe away Daddy’s pneumonia. The nurse is worried about “Pappy.” That’s her name for my father — who in younger days, was a more respectful ‘Mr. Pappas.’
Pappy, indeed. The nurse says it’s hard for the elderly to bounce back. Is she trying to prepare me? Or herself? I should have told her, if anyone can bounce back, my father can. Doesn’t that sound just like a child, bragging about what her daddy can do?
Do raindrops taste as good as when I was a child? Back then, I didn’t care whether I stayed dry or got wet. Before I ‘got’ better sense, I would turn my small face up to the sky. Open my mouth. Wide. Wider. And catch raindrops with my tongue. Sweet success.
I was a young thirsty flower with no need for doctors or tongue depressors to tell me to say “Ahh.” I knew good medicine when it hit me in the face.