Rainy Day Women, #12 & 35, Bob Dylan

The world stops when it rains.  The noise alone makes it possible.  Droplets as big as coins, pure water, clatter on the zinc roofs.  Flashes and lines of lightning crack, louder than the song of rain, and thunder is the only thing that can overpower it.  We speak in raised voices outside, huddled under umbrellas.  Under real roofs, we shout – it’s the only way to be heard.  For the first time in months, my skin puckers into gooseflesh and I am cold, really and truly cold.

People don’t leave their houses when it rains.  Meetings get cancelled without a reminding phone call or a courtesy.  To leave home is to get wet, to get wet is to be cold and sick.  It is safer to stay at home, warmer inside the house with noise, clattering and banging of water on the roof.  Umbrellas do not protect sufficiently.  The world stops, pausing only to allow those caught by surprise to run for cover, under roofs, ranchos and porches.  We pause there, waiting for a break to run home, or until it stops to carry on with our days.

We jump in our skin as thunder and lightning approach.  We know they will not touch us, but we fear it all the same.  The thunder is louder than the waves, but less deadly.  It lasts longer, holding it’s tone until all the air is gone.  The bugs freeze in their tracks, the animals curl under chairs, in corners and doorways and the old ladies hold their brooms and rakes in their hands.  No one moves until the rain moves away.

The world seems to stop when it rains, but time still ticks away.  Minute by minute, hour after hour, sitting, staring, watching.  The water drips quickly, in steady streams or long droplets, pausing only between raindrops.  The world stops, but time keeps moving.  We are frozen, placeholders for when we begin again.  When the water stops, we come back to life, as though we never stopped.