Tink, tink.
I place my book on my bedside table and slowly begin to stand up. A few drops of rain are plinking against our copper roof, like the soft click of a high-hat. Slowly — I was almost asleep — I walk out into the living room and sit at the small table. I am facing a wall, of course, but it is a special wall, one made entirely of windows ten feet tall. As I sit, a few droplets of water have already begun to leave their mark on these windows. I watch the drops follow the law of gravity, their conductor, as they slide down the panes, leaving beaded tracers behind them. And I wait.
The tink, tink of the high-hat turns into the sizzle of a crash cymbal as the rain picks up intensity. The storm is getting closer as I listen to the sounds gaining tempo and volume. I close my eyes and imagine myself outside in the middle of it, rain hammering me from all sides and wind tearing at my pajamas. I open my eyes again and am almost surprised to find myself still dry. It is relaxing, listening to the rain like this. My mind begins to wander and I may or may not doze off, but it doesn’t really matter yet.
When I find myself again, the sizzle of the cymbal has crescendoed into machinegun hits on a snare. Rain is pounding the house from all sides and the wind is screaming a tune no flute or harmonica player could match. I find myself amazed that my small town could survive such a torrential downpour without being washed away. Within my house the soft humming of the fan has stopped and I realize the power has gone out. My eyelids are heavy and I suddenly feel very hot and clammy.
There is a brilliant flash through the ten foot windows and I find myself counting the sec
(BCCCCHHHHRRRRRRRRRMM)
onds before the thunder claps, the deep rumbling of a base drum and timpani. There is a three second interval. I close my eyes again and listen, struggling to stay awake, feeling the power and vibration of that colossal base drum upon every hit, and listening to the music of the rolling timpani.
Later — it is hard to say how much later — it is over. I walk outside, barefoot in my polka-dot pajamas, and breathe deeply. There is a clean and fresh unnamed smell that I will always associate with the rain. I wait there among the fallen branches and leaves, curling my toes in the grass, and listen. I don’t hear any of the usual small-town sounds, or even silence; in my head, there is thundering applause. It has been a wonderful concert, worthy of a standing ovation, and well worth the price of some missed sleep. I stand there for a long time in the wet grass, clapping my hands noiselessly.
