Tonight the wind picked up the drops of rain and laughingly spattered them against our dirty feet, as we shrieked and tried to melt as far back into the bricks as we could, shivering and glorying in the sudden chill…

And I remembered…

… lying in my bed at home, peering through the rain-splattered glass of my upstairs window at the yard light – it’s gleam pale and watery in the reflections of the window. If I rocked from side to side it changed shape – sliding like a watery ghost from one raindrop-tear to another, shining for a moment, and then disappearing to gently trickle into a hundred others.

They say snowflakes all have different forms; I wonder – do raindrops, also? And what about tears? Is God really that creative?

And I remembered lying in that same bed at home, looking up at the ceiling and feeling the house shake with the force of the gusts of wind; rumbling in response – as old houses do – to the grumbles of Mr. Thunder, completely and totally awestruck that anyone could go to sleep with a Force so patently furious pounding the very walls of our home. Snuggling deeper under the covers, I marveled. Not in fear – in awe.

But wait – the angels must be dancing again… or are they bowling? They must all be terrible dancers… what kind of rhythm is that?

And I remembered jumping on the trampoline at home. Brinca-brinca – yes, indeed! And, oh, how we jumped, danced, wheeled, tumbled, sang, chanted, begged for the sky to release forth its abundant promise of rain! We had seen the clouds, felt that subtle change in the wind, watched as the golden wheat turned bronze and silver, squealed in delight as the cobalt sky tumbled over itself to build cloud castles higher and higher and higher…

C’mon, Rainmain! Drench us – pour out Your tears, and soak us with the force of Your weeping eyes!

And I remembered lying on the green carpet in the living room at home. Where else but in front of the record player? My head resting sideways on my crossed arms, stomach pressed into the thinly- covered floor boards, legs crossed at the heels as each thunder roll coincided perfectly with the drum rolls in Bach’s Minuet fait par Mons. Did every family listen to the Greatest Hits of 1720, I wondered? I could feel the music seep through my ears, into the cavity of my brain, press against the back of my eye sockets, roll down my throat, circle my pumping heart, branch through the tiny capillaries on my lungs and then pulse deep into the pit of my stomach… suddenly, shimmering to the surface of my back, and then my arms, and legs, and spreading out into my fingertips so that they gently thrummed against that green, speckled carpet. And the lightning continued to flash outside – a percussive finale for my eyes alone.

As children, we think the world is ours alone to possess and discover. Do you dance and sing and click your teeth in rhythm with the telephone poles as they flash past the car window, too?

And now… now I have new memories.

A new idea of home. New people inside that home – little people – even though I’m still here. Check the mirror, stare straight into the darkened iris – any recognition? Yep – there on the edge, the grey part of the blue that keeps trying to make up its mind… it must be me.

And I will remember…

… pressing back into the bricks, laughing as the kids shriek and yell out to God to give us more! More! MÁS! Little bare feet dancing on the speckled gray and white bricks in the late-May evening, singing and praising the Rainman for His lagrimas…

Did they just say the angels are dancing? The dark-skinned girl upside down in the lawnchair, hair tossing in the wind and eyes serious, illuminated by the far-distant lightning – I bet she’s thinking the angels are bad dancers…

And I will remember washing the dishes after dinner, feeling the rain-fresh evening breeze gently blow through the open window, cooling the beaded drops on my forehead and cheeks. The warm, soapy water slips around the plates as the kids chatter in the background about who got the muddiest in the afternoon rain. I was dirtiest, no I-I-I was, no SHE was – you all were, okay? Well, then, I was the wettest! No, I-I-I was, no SHE was… and so it goes.

Ah, will these years continue? Teasing, arguing, fighting siblings gradually grown into taller versions of themselves – nobody loves you more, but hey, let’s fight again for good measure…

And I will remember little arms squeezing the breath out of my throat, out of my lungs, out of my heart – filling me with this joy that I just… can’t explain. Will I please, please, just please this once! open the window and let them listen to the rain patter on the rocks outside? Pretty please with sugar and chiles on top? Yes, they want music, too. Bach okay tonight? The rain-kissed wind brushes across my bare feet on the cool cement floor, and gooseflesh ripples across my legs as I rock to the sound of their breathing as it gets deeper, slower, almost there… goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs or the cucarachas bite…

Is it raining in Dreamland tonight? Can they hear the music of 1720 still gliding across the floor and crooning in their ears, wreathing through their dreams with each ripple of the window curtains?

And I will remember that each time it rains, it brings so many memories – and that one night, two nights, a million nights I sat down to capture them… and they slid away like pale, watery tears on the window glass at home.