This morning, the rain fell, not a wind-ripping storm, but a wonderful steady patter, dripping and gurgling, drifting through an open window along with the fresh scent of mineral and earth. It’s the same sound from thirty years ago on a summer day in Sedona, Arizona. Donna and I got caught in a storm, and we ran laughing to the cover of a park shelter, sat on a picnic table with our arms around each other, watching the rain fall, drops trickling from our hair and clothing sticking to our skin.
A similar patter drifted through an open window the afternoon after my father‘s funeral, as I lay on my childhood bed on a handmade quilt. The same crisp scent filled the room, but with a different feeling, and memories sifted through my head, a shared fishing trip on a Colorado lake as rain fell, filling the mountain air with the same haunting sound.
After I got news of my mother‘s passing, I went upstairs to pack a suitcase, and the same wet rhythm flowed through an open window like vast tears from a grey sky. It seldom rains in LA, but it did that January morning, and the tantalizing scent took on another meaning: black suit, tie, and shoes to match.
It’s the identical sound from my childhood when dark clouds crossed the mountains, and we knew we had minutes before we’d get dumped on, and we sat on our bikes in a garage with an open door as the wet, rushing sound covered the world, dousing the summer heat in moments. The summer storms of Colorado pass as fast as they arrive, and we’d ride our bikes over wet pavement with the sound of hush, spitting from our wheels.