Rain

It rained today. A mighty tropical storm where noon turns to dusk, and then a few fat drops slap the window portending the coming deluge. 

Pedestrians outside our window step quickly, taking cover. The pace quickens, we can see a a grey sheet across the way while here it's still mostly dry. We all run to the hallway, the kids carry their snack plates. Look! Look! Guys! Look! It’s going to rain! Let’s go see! Come on! Let’s go see the rain! 

And then a torrent, heavy and fast, pouring a month’s worth of precipitation into a few moments. We listen to the the steady drum against the window. Ten minutes in, the water is already ankle deep and cars cut a hot white wake through the roundabout. The umbrella boys appear, boyent at the prospect of a little income. Barefoot carrying umbrellas wider than they are tall, they escort delicate shoppers a hundred meters from one mall to the other in exchange for a few crumpled notes. 

And we all watch from the window, so glad to see that after many months the rituals of a rainstorm are still the same, and soon we’ll be going to sleep to that rhythm against our windows.