At Midnight, a Memory

Late Sunday night: It starts to rain and I am lying under an open window, looking up at the foliage outside, quiet, almost reverent, just listening. I think of the smell of water coming off of fir trees in Oregon, the damp earth and salt air near the ocean, the persistent light hiss of water filtering through all the trees I'd stare at on car rides through the mountains. I've missed the rain, the sound of water. I close my eyes and think about it. I start to laugh because I feel a drop on my face, bouncing through the screen on the window and it surprises me. But I don't move. I hear myself breathing. I listen to Ryan. We both say we'd forgotten what the rain sounds like. I think I've forgotten how much of my life is tied to this sound--people, places, smells, discoveries. I wish it could rain just a little every night so I could fall asleep listening and remembering.