Rainwashed

It has been raining since this afternoon. It seems to happen so rarely here, a good steady rain. It is the kind of rain that is inescapable, the kind that soaks your shoes and your pants to your knees. The kind that turns our deep irrigation-style Provo street gutters into streaming rivers. One day of it is good for the soul. Any more than that and I start to feel dreary and sodden.

My house finds a voice when it rains. I can hear it as I get ready for bed, in the bathroom doorway. When I first heard it soon after we'd moved into this house I was terrified the place was going to come right down on top of us. It's old enough, it still might, I suppose. I hear a train whistle mournfully somewhere across town. I listen to the droplets of rain and the creaking of my roof tonight and I think of Isaac this afternoon asking eagerly if I'd seen how fast the tulips are coming up.

"Is the rain good for the flowers" and "What happens if they get too much rain?" And then, "Why does hair get darker when it's wet?" There are more, but I can't remember, because the wipers are squeaking across my windshield, and I am trying to catch, in broken pieces, the news of Libya on the radio. After a few minutes of this, I give up. Too much competition, and it's clear enough that whatever is happening across the world right now will only get uglier.

The windshield wipers go on... back and forth, back and forth. Now there is only the sound of rain and wipers, and ironically enough, my children are silent. I sigh. Should I...? I hesitate with my finger over the radio knob but decide not to tempt fate. We drive on through a wet silence. There is still a part of me straining for Libya, or for the flamingoes in Siberia, or for the catchy jingle just before "All Tech Considered" that Eli and I always dance to in our seats (totally nerdy, I know) But after a few moments I relax and settle here, now. My whole mind reaches back to my children. Eli has fallen asleep in his car seat. He is still so young. Caleb is all the way in the back watching the water flow over his window. I remember being mesmerized as a child as I watched the droplets endlessly coalesce, separate, slide down my car window. Isaac is also looking out the window, a philosophical expression on his face, probably coming up with yet another question that I won't be able to adequately answer. One more sigh. This time, I am content.