I recall one particular rainy, warm summer day when I was younger. A tall window overlooked the driveway. I stepped onto the porch for a moment to be with the rain, the puddles and wet it made so appealing. My spontaneity then surprised, surprises me. I donned my swimsuit and ran outside. My mom watched, laughing, from the porch, phone camera ready, while I played. For a moment, I laid in the yard. We had a big front yard, grassy, full of acorns. Just unkempt enough to welcome a child’s antics.
No one else was out. In rainy suburbs, people tend not to be. It’s always fascinating to be the only one around. No one was driving through. I lived atop a hill, with ample foliage lining the road in both directions. The right, in particular, is stare-worthy in any season. I looked left a long time. And right again. A word of caution from Mom. And I laid there, in the middle of that road, and shut my eyes against the rain, and the world became cold and sound, stillness against my readiness to avoid an encroaching vehicle. It’s been a long time since then.