dancing in the rain

Miss G and I get positively giddy when we see clouds coming in across these too-bright desert skies. And when we get the rare thunderstorm— like the delicious black clashing flashing goodness we had last night— we dance together in the rain.

“Mama! It’s raining! Hurry!” When she grabs my hand, shoes and obligations scatter. Nothing exists but us and the rain.

We run to the middle of the street, then throw our heads back and open our smiles to take it in— the taste, the smell, the chill of it. Stinging kisses dazzle our parched skin, while our bare feet get drunk on puddles. Sometimes we shriek and giggle and yell back and forth. Sometimes we stand silent, listening to the mice-feet of the rain, the thunder’s rolling kettle drums.

The kitchen’s warm yellow welcome is lost in cold lightning flashes, but we can always find our way home. We’re magic, in the rain. Connected and eternal and sacred. For those wet minutes we dance outside the world, just us. Us and the rain.