Rain, Again

It's raining again and I have nowhere to be angry about it. No picnic canceled. No commute ruined. Just rain doing the only thing rain knows how to do: falling. There's a lesson there if you want it. I don't. I just want to stand at the window and watch the world get honestly wet. Rain doesn't pretend. It doesn't negotiate. It doesn't check the forecast of your plans and adjust itself accordingly. It arrives. It commits. It soaks everything equally— the garden you planted with hope and the car you forgot to close the window on. I love the sound of it on a roof— that drumming that says you're inside and everything else isn't. I love the smell of it— petrichor, the earth's way of saying I missed this. I love the way people run from it as if they're not sixty percent water already. As if getting wet is the worst thing that could happen on a Wednesday. My grandmother used to say rain is God doing laundry. I don't know about that, but I know the world looks cleaner after. The leaves look like they've been polished. The sidewalks shine like someone cared enough to mop. And the quiet— that particular quiet of a city after the storm passes— is the closest thing to peace I've found that doesn't require meditation or money or effort. Just rain. Just standing still. Just letting something wash over you without trying to stop it. Which, now that I think about it, might be the lesson after all.