Rain

It is raining tonite, and I made the last of my Thanksgiving visits, to Momma's house down the road. My four sisters will leave tomorrow morning. It was good to see them. They are scattered across Tennessee, Alabama, and Louisiana. We get together three or four times a year.

I came home in the rain, to a quiet house, and opened a bottle of brandy I have been saving for just such an evening. Tonite is for contemplation. For the silence of the soul, and I think that the rain has something to do with that. The sound of rain is probably the oldest sound upon the porches of man's ears. It is a universal sound, the same where ever it is heard. Whether the jungles of Southeast Asia, or the mountains of Tennessee, a gentle rain sounds like history.

I'm sure that there are genetic memories in the ancient stimuli. A touch, a sound, a taste, all with knowledge that our forefathers knew instinctively. Even in the short span of my life, the sound of rain brings back many memories. Of terror in a darkened alley, of ecstasy in a candlelit bedroom.

The brandy helps against the chill of the evening. To toast an absent friend and to recall a night of unreserved passion. Listening to the rain on a darkened porch with a snifter of brandy is a time ponder what has been and what might be.