rain on a rooftop

soothing is the sound of rain on a rooftop. like bluesy music, songbirds singing, and wind rushing through treetops, it's comforting to me. one of the best sounds in the world. it quenches anxious spells. softens crusty peaks of ice and snow. cleanses the atmosphere. helps me fall asleep amid the worry, fear and frustration of tending to my choking, seizing son.

i first heard the patter of droplets on the sill outside calvin's window as i laid next to him last night in the wake of his brain's electric storm. in the silent moments when his breathing faltered, i heard the swish of passing cars. i nudged him to inhale. i wondered if the spate had brought on the evening seizure. sometime later, the rain began drumming hard on our red metal roof. underneath the covers, i soaked it in—the sound and thought of the sky opening up and surrendering. it's what i sometimes long to do—surrender. or at least escape life's dark clouds like raindrops do. i thought about my childhood home near seattle where rain is reliable nine months running. i sometimes got the blues. that same rain is now renewing. i thought about my thirst for spring, for a thaw to reveal the last frigging blade of green. or a melt good enough to coax the crocuses into coming up at the sunny southwest corner of our home. for frozen, curled-up rhododendrons to unfurl. for buds to swell and open. for winter's long and somber world to explode into psychedelic blooms. to get outside with calvin and move.

by morning the storm had passed. on today's drive, i put the front seat windows down an inch or two. at forty-three degrees and sunny, it feels like april. back at home now, smellie is napping in a patch of sun. calvin is resting and recovering on the green couch, his face beneath his baby blanket the way he likes to do. i'm sitting atop a pile of clean clothes, some folded, others not, in a corner chair. the house is quiet. cars swoosh by through puddles. a warmish breeze teases limbs and leaves into awakening. this weekend, more rain is coming and, like last night's storms, it'll move me and move through.