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On a hot day, sometimes it rains.
At the sound of the first drops,
rain begins to pitter-patter on hot tin roofs like a tambour,
like an incantation that summons children to run outside and dance in their underwear.
Squealing with joy,
delightedly hoping the shower will last long enough to get completely drenched before Mama calls them in,
screaming that they’ll catch their death from a cold.
The smell of wet earth is satisfying as it
turns dry, parched earth into wet, soft red clay.
Men lift their eyes—hopes and fears—to the sky,
not knowing if this rain will be a blessing or a curse.
A blessing if it waters the crops,
a curse if it destroys them.
Rain is hope.
But sometimes it rains, and that very same sky splits open
with a rage that can’t be contained.
What starts as a quiet sprinkling
becomes a loud downpour,
then a deluge,
then a flood that
swallows streets,
rips mountainsides,
and the homes they carried.
The ravine that is always dry
suddenly swells into an uncontrollable monster,
devouring anything and everything in its path.
Every storm becomes a reason for prayer—
a prayer for the crops,
for the displaced,
for those on the road,
for those by the sea,
for those in the mountains,
and for those in the plains.
Some pray for the rain to stay.
Some pray for it to stop.
The rain arrives with two hands—
one open, nurturing life,
the other, taking it away.
Yet after the rain, the sun returns,
and people start moving again.
Because in this land,
where blessings and curses come from the same sky,
life continues after every storm.
And yes, sometimes it rains.
~
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