When the piano plays, I forget about the rain outside.
That too becomes a song — a sweet, translucent web binding together our existence.
There is no rain right now, but the melody in my mind transports me … to a bed by a window, a pale sky. A red, scratchy blanket is laid smoothly over the bed. I’m sitting on the blanket — one leg down its side, the other folded under me. My neck is turned toward the window. My eyes try to follow the raindrops.
If I try hard enough, move my eyes quickly enough over and over again, I believe that perhaps for just a split second, I’ll catch a glimpse of individual shapes. The beads of my eyes will mirror the belly of the water droplets, and I’ll travel down with them for a while.
But I keep missing them. They’re too fast. I never catch up.
Soon I give up the reigns and see the rain for what it is: a downpour. I don’t mind not dissecting it anymore; I already know what it is. And sometimes you don’t need to see each particle to believe; it’s just as comforting to sit on the sidelines and watch it calmly flow its course.
So I continue to sit on the bed, watch the rain from inside and wait, alone with the piano.