One of my earlist vague memories is of being held by my mother at an open door during a rainstorm. I remember the feel of the mist on my face, the sound of occasional thunder and the flash of lightning, the constant patter of rain, and the clean smell on the wind. As I got older, Mom would stand with me at the door, and I remember her telling me how pretty the rain is.

Mom had had a bad experience with a thunderstorm in her youth, and she consciously tried to make me feel calm and pleasant about thunderstorms. It worked — even now, I prefer to have the windows open during a good rain, to smell the freshness and hear the thunder and the water coming down.

There’s a nice, mild rain happening outside, with constant low rumbling thunder and a gentle breeze. I’ve opened the windows in the basement, where the overhang from the upper floor will keep the rain from coming in. The only thing that would make me happier right now would be a porch and a swing. That way, I could stick my feet out in the rain, like I did during those perfect rainy evenings at my apartment on South Main St. in BG, during the summer of 1999.

Right now, in this moment, I’m content.