It is raining. The rain barrel where some of my snapdragons are planted is overflowing, gushing into the new plants. I watch from the bathroom window, hoping they don’t drown.
On rainy days I want tuna fish sandwiches and canned tomato soup. And chicken wings from the Grand Union of my childhood, their tangy crunch coating my lips. This was what my mom fed us when we were stuck inside.
My children never want to stay inside when it rains. They wander out to the porch and ask to go farther. I usually say no.
It rained the night my husband was in the hospital for appendicitis. He was only gone for one night but it was the first time our family of four had been apart at bedtime. The anxiety constantly bubbled under my skin and my breathing was short and ragged.
That night, my children begged to go outside in the rain and I let them. I watched them run and scream, their bodies soaked, faces alight with joy. The anxiety in my chest loosened.
Later, I put them in the bath and then we made brownies in our pajamas. We searched for rainbows before night fell but found none. That night the three of us piled into my bed and I sat between them and read until they were fast asleep. That night I let our legs tangle together, let our breathing rise and fall to the same rhythm.
The rain has made everything green again. The rain is what keeps us here, what gives us life. I watch from inside, streaks running in rivulets down the glass.