With the pounding of rain bouncing off the metal roof like tiny dancers in an intricate tap dance, I abandoned my dolls and rushed down the steep staircase. Sliding on the wood flooring, I swerved through doorways and rooms until I reached the entrance to the garage. Pigtails flying I gave a shout behind me, “Dad! It’s happening, come on!” My dad had just returned home an hour ago from work. I could see his jacket hung on the hooks, white shirt unbuttoned a few notches, and his tie draped lazily on a nearby kitchen table chair. The remnants of a hard day at work. Nevertheless, the rain waited for no one, and I was intent to meet it. With one last encouraging yell to my dad, I leapt up to twist the doorknob and was immediately welcomed by a gust of warming wind. It reached and wrapped itself around me, little tendrils of whooshing force inviting me further into the garage. My hurried pace was forgotten and my attention turned toward the rushing melody of the wind and the continuous yet inconsistent drum of the rain. My bare feet scraped against the gray dry concrete, and the smell of clay drifted into my senses and out, a tide fueled by the wind. Feeling brave, I dashed to the edge of the garage, dipping my crudely painted toe into the stream flowing from the pavement of the driveway into the young grass. Peaking my head out from under the dry canopy of the garage, hot droplets splashed into my eyelashes and onto my face, dribbling around my arms then finally rejoining with the stream. A sizzle of pleasant electricity tangled my already knotty hair and magnetized me farther into the storm. I stuck my hand out and collected a puddle in my palm, a minuscule oasis in the raging oceans of water forming below. However, the rain didn’t like to be handled so it splashed and bounced out of my palm until my oasis was gone. I felt as if I was somehow out of place, like an intruder in a private moment. It was like watching a flower open its petals or a vine grow an
Issue 39 | 21