Chris was away on a service call yesterday which stretched WAY into the night over in Illinois, and I don’t sleep well when he’s not at home. The sounds of a quiet house are vast and different---the quiet shussssh and click of the clear cubes falling in the ice-maker, the faithful real tick-tock of the pendulum on the den clock, the whoooosh of the furnace clicking on at its needed intervals.
And there was a slow, soothing rain out there beyond my window, coupled with enough breeze to keep a constant tune amongst all the wind-chimes in the eaves. The raindrops must have been enormous spattery ones, like one of those Summertime rains which tempts you out onto the porch to tuck your feet beneath you in the swing, enjoying the movement of the swing and dance of the drops. Remember those stolen hours, with the rain just a hands-breadth away through the porch screen, and how you had to wipe an errant splash or two from your book? And how that simple bit of weather changed the tenor of the day into something strange and memorable by the snug rarity of it?
I could hear the rain landing on the patio, and in great thummms onto the “rain-tub”---Chris' idea---a #3 washtub turned upside down just outside the window, to make almost the same music as Mammaw’s tin roof. And occasionally in the night, the clops onto the big blue tarp thrown over the snow-blower after the last use last week were like intermittent herds of little horses, in a slow trot across my dreams.
Long about four-by-the-bedside-clock, the whole experience was complete, as I snuggled into all the pillows to the familiar call of a faraway train.