A nice thing…

I was watching the rain through the sidelight to the front door one morning after the winter thaw. It was coming down steadily, falling on Water Street and elsewhere, washing the winter away, drumming the soil to life, awakening tiny living things, little sprouts. I could just see them stretching… reaching for the water.

I used to love the rain and the after-rain smell on my childhood street. There was much to wash away there. The inner city doesn’t try to hide its sorrow. I’d sit on the porch made of stone and brick and concrete, watching the water paint the houses and yards with new colors; and I was just the kind of kid who would get weepy at such a sight.

The rain, that necessary water, brought a different kind of tears to my eyes. The kind of tears that believed the rain when it said everything’s new. Those tears, any and all kinds of them, were necessary too. They did water’s work, brought out textures I hadn’t noticed, shined up the dullness, made the mundane reflective.

The water does the mirror’s work, showing us much more than we  knew existed within and without ourselves. And, that water? It cycles round and round, keeping us vital, reminding us we’re alive.

A nice thing… rain and tears are the same water. Water that cycles through your life and mine at the same time.