I loved the rain as a child. I loved the sound of it
on the leaves of trees and roofs and window panes and
umbrellas and the feel of it on my face and bare legs.
I loved the hiss of rubber tires on rainy streets and
the flip-flop of windshield wipers. I loved the smell
of wet grass and raincoats and the shaggy coats of dogs.
A rainy day was a special day for me in a sense that no
other kind of day was--a day when the ordinariness of things
was suspended with ragged skies drifting to the color of
pearl and dark streets turning to dark rivers of reflected
light and even people transformed somehow as the rain drew
them closer by giving them something to think about together,
to take common shelter from, to complain of and joke about
in ways that made them more like friends than it seemed to me
they were on ordinary sunny days. But more than anything,
I think, I loved rain for the power it had to make indoors
seem snugger and safer and a place to find refuge in from
everything outdoors that was un-home, unsafe. I loved rain
for making home seem home more deeply.