Rain

I’m sitting in my grandparents' RV, listening to the noise on the roof as Gram does her crossword puzzles and Grampa reads. It’s pouring outside, the kind of rain that asserts itself on every surface, flying back up on impact. The campground surrounding us has turned to deep shades: all dark browns and lush greens, really beautiful saturated colors.

Normally I’m not a fan of rain, but it’s the drizzle kind I hate, the half-assed drops soaking you through without your consent. I like rain like this because by escaping it, it contains you. You huddle up inside with your hot coffee and books and your house becomes a shelter. I love that.

This rain feels like it really could continue for 40 days and 40 nights, lifting this motor home and washing us down the creek that Grampa says must be rushing by at 6 knots. It occurs to me that it wouldn’t be the worst way to travel, pitching hard to starboard on the rolling spontaneous sea.

The forest out the window sways and drips and I fight the urge to run outside. My brother and I used to do that when we were young. Storms would strike and we’d burst out the door, running and laughing in the odd exhilaration of warm summer rain. Three years ago a hailstorm struck at midday and we sprinted around the yard, the ice sliding under our tanned feet and striking the tops of our heads. I remember feeling so free, as if the violent sky allowed my chest to crack open and spill out pent-up feeling, as if I could let it go and just be for a little while.

I walked down to the creek and took a picture of this flash-flood rain. As my Gram put it, this sort of raw nature is awesome. Evidence below: