Rain

The sound of rain.

I have turned off the AC unit and the fan and am parked at the entrance of the house, sitting at the dining table listening to the rain hit the sun shielding tarp, the bricks in the courtyard, the tin roofs.

I love this sound.

I loved this sound when we were tied up at the boat dock, sleeping in the forward berth, the wind gently rocking the boat, the sound of rain. It made this same sound.

The smell of rain.

The initial smell of rain in Khartoum is sand and dirt. The huge sand storms that precede it. Sand and dirt enter every crevice it can find. In the house, the car,
you. The winds whip it around. Driving is hazardous.

In Khartoum, you do not end up with the smell of dark, deep earth. You end up with the beach, but no water.

We had stopped at a vegetable stand and it was insane, doing business with sand entering your mouth when you spoke, your eyes, your nose, and, I later discovered, my ears.

They dropped me off as the rain was beginning to fall. Rascal was glad to see me. Dropping the vegetables on the counter, I realized it was covered in sand. It was everywhere. In the bathroom, on every surface. The only places spared was where a door was shut. Lesson learned?

The look of rain as it approaches.

In Khartoum, you can tell the approach of the ran by the sand in front of the rain. It looks like yellow rain, moving across the horizon. In just two rain storms, I have recognized the advance.

I remember the first time that I saw rain advance across the plains and in Florida. I loved to sit and watch it then, and I still do now. I had never seen that in Westchester, NY.

The thunder and lightning have passed, the wind dies down and raises up, lifting the tarp and spilling the accumulated water. What is left is a steady rain, not a shower.

Why did I not pack an umbrella?

Rascal alternates between standing guard at the door entrance or lying at my feet.

I have decided that I will buy the bread in the morning.