Rain

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Under most circumstances I love the rain. I love the first rain that comes after three months' drought, when the land is so parched it has forgotten a life with water and given in to its arid world, and when those first drops hit the ground the earth heaves a sigh of relief and it feels as though the whole world is reborn.

And I love the rain that is hardly a drizzle, that clings to spider webs and the ends of your eyelashes, and the rain that lashes against windowpanes while you are inside, warm and dry, a mug of tea in your hand and a book in your lap.

I am fortunate, then, to be here during the rainy season. Most afternoons -- around 2 or 3 pm -- towering cumulus clouds form above the surrounding mountains and roll in over Quito. Thunder rattles the windows, lightning flashes against the gray clouds and rain pounds the city. I love these storms. Even when I am caught out in them walking home from the grocery store or class, and arrive home drenched, they still send shivers down my spine.

But in spite of this there are still days when my response to the gray, relentless rain is of a different nature altogether. Today I received an email bearing unfortunate news. The mother of one of the women I worked with at Beginning with Books in Pittsburgh died last week. As I read this news every fiber of my being silenced and I felt impossibly far away. And when I looked out the window at the rain pouring down all I could see was grief.

e.

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Photos

Rain
outside our front door