Rain

This morning, the woman in the apartment above us watered the plants on her terrace. First I heard the sound of the pressurized hose. Then I looked up and saw water cascading from the roof of our balcon, a thick determined sheet of strange rain, falling against a background of bright sunlight.

Tonight the air has gotten progressively heavier and now there are flashes of light and rumblings of thunder that sound like they're still well beyond the St. Lawrence, hanging unwelcome above the miserable, flooded plans of the Richelieu. The cat hides, alert, under the low roof of the coffee table, a small simple plank of cherrywood on four tapered legs that my father made for me when I was a child. I silently agree with her; it's the most comforting object in the house.

Two more loud claps, and then a burst of rain that ends quickly, giving over to the sound of wheels passing through puddles. Voices. Laughter. Rumbling, now heading north toward the Laurentians. The cat gets up, stretches, and heads into the kitchen to check her bowl.