A rainstorm just went through on the run; receding flashes of lightning still splatter the black sky in the distance. Wet-smelling night air streams inside through an open window, rustling the post-it-notes stuck on the edge of my computer screen.
Meanwhile, I correspond electronically with various people online in Kalamazoo, Lafayette, Chicago, and Austin. It’s late and I’m alone here in the boonies, but am hardly lonely as I’m caught in the midst of conversation spanning a wide range of topics: wedding after-glow, cooking discoveries, health issues, emotional healing in the wake of a relational break-up, new friendship, upcoming birthing.
Thunder grumbles. More raindrops patter all-of-a-sudden and run irregularly down the windowpane as familiar, silvery dots. I intentionally squint my eyes until they blur.
Is it raining at our old house in Buck Creek? I can envision rain running down the tall west window of our bedroom. I remember how distant lightning illuminated the shape of the old barn roof from that view. I wonder if the creek is swelling to the top of its banks, wanting to overflow? I find myself wanting to go back, just for tonight, to watch the rain come down.
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