I am sitting on the porch, hearing the rain before it starts. The air shivers; it rustles; it quivers a bit.
I call my son outside to affirm what I am, or am not, hearing.
"Listen," I tell him.
Charlie is quiet for a moment, then asks: "What?"
"Shhh. The sound. Do you hear it?"
"It's rain," he says.
But when he trots across the porch and stands on the sidewalk, he doesn't get wet.
He goes inside, and the rhythmic sound persists. Hearing it, yet seeing nothing but the orange tint of autumn's air, is an odd sensation. I feel as if I am somehow privy to the future, to a split-second secret of what is a breath away: The last batch of leaves to fall; stars to sparkle; wineglasses and hearts to shatter.
Within minutes, the rain is falling. Oddly enough, without a sound.
An Older Dad, Down for the Count
1 day ago