briefly: rain porch
There’s this tradition from when I was little where, when it’d rain real hard, or when it’d start to storm, we’d go out onto the porch bundled up in blankets and listen to the rain.
It’s kinda silly - we’d sometimes complain about how the bitter cold bites our cheeks, or when the wind would turn just right to get your face wet.
But we’d still stick around outside anyway, curled up on this little metal bench with a couple pillows on it, and just listen.
Sometimes we’d listen for the thunder, counting down after seeing every bolt of light peek from the forest that surrounded us to hear how far away it is.
Sometimes the frogs would come out and sing their welcomes to the much-needed storm.
Most of the time, though, it was just us, the rain, and the rare neighbor driving their rusty truck on by, parting the little river welling up in the road between its tires.
And we’d talk, sometimes, during the rain’s little intermissions. About life. About feelings for the future. About Mario Kart Wii.
And we’d watch the stream of rainwater run down our road, masquerading its deep potholes into shallow puddles.
And we’d take in the smell - the petrichor of the rain swirling with the dirt and all of the forest greens.
It’s little wonder our parents would have to carry us inside.