The leaves outside the window catch one another, brushing with each fall of water as thousands of drops gather and make their way to the flora covering what was carefully raked a day ago. The splashes from the seal pang on the glass/ a knocking that need not be disturbed.

I follow the sounds answer to a restless crowd, its own life taken to the neighborhood's gray as music does its maestro, the train making its entrance a fair distance from the nearest school, horns crescendo to its peak before its steady decrescendo to depart the stage. These were the days I returned to, these were the days that I looked forward to, though I knew the threat loomed that could take away this place, I was always most thankful for the rain.

The sun would be rising far to the back, a reserved lighting. The usual chirping is not as loud as they would be during a fuller looking sun, but they were there, bouncing in and out of the way of the rain. Its song has taken over, and a calming rhythm has taken shape. It has called upon the clouds, asking them to darken, and a slow rumble presses, deepening the beats of their droplets crashing and spilling, spilling and crashing before a bold clap of thunder.

A burst of light brightens the other side of my closed eyes, flickering just before the beads quicken to their response, then softens back to a steady stream which I follow. And I am returned to my grandmother's kitchen on similar days, the bank of cousins that come crashing through the door, and like thunder, clap me on the back as if to make sure I'm real. I gaze out the window and am returned to find life.

Its gray shadow has not changed its shade by the few birds flying over the empty streets. The glistening that has taken over appears to have revealed hidden guilds that direct the rushing of smaller streams working hard to finish sweeping the leaves that I have missed. No flood today. Not today. They seem safe enough to ride upon if I were a gentler, smaller passenger. Perhaps the gutters are not as foreboding as they seem. Perhaps they would make their way to the creek that rest in the back were the oldest house in the neighborhood resides.

There the best stories were told. Oh they were made up for sure, but that spooky haze that didn't exist anywhere else made them real. The trees there always looked darker, as if the clouds could not escape them. And then, that invisible line that when crossed made everything appear to brighten. Those memories seem as distant as the train's departing. Family always laid dormant in the background, but they were there. Always there. I followed the sounds and remembered. This is the home I longed for/ this is the home I miss. It wasn't claimed by the storms. It was claimed by a gentler rain.

Music by www.Bensound.com