Rain comes in stages: a downpour for twenty seconds, a syncopated melody, a sprinkling.
Windows blur when drops blow slant with the wind.
Flowers pop in garden beds, dot mud, push aside the weeds.
After the rain, silence steeps its own special brew that never exists in bustling coffee shops. It’s warm in the way the still dark acts as a blanket, promising the sun will rise.
Every branch on every backyard tree hushes, halts swaying and creaking, knowing the only sound allowed is birdsong.
The leaves breathe bright and tulips splay their petals, opening until they fall back upon themselves, exhausted. Soon all the spring flowers will say their goodbyes.
Standing at the kitchen window, I see the dog sniffing our fence. Our cat murmurs at the door, asking to go out. Then he sees the dog. My stomach grumbles, but it and the dirty dishes of last night can wait. I want to snuggle my sleepy-headed boy on the couch, Hold onto his time of being five, but he asks, as always, “How many more days until my birthday?” We consult the calendar. Twenty-three. He tries to wiggle a tooth, anxious to lose one, as his best friend already has.
And while we see the sunlight slide across the living room floor, while we wonder about birthdays and teeth and fleeting moments, a text reminds me of our cousins’ hurried trip to Vegas, to the view of high-rises and concrete.
They see the sunrise as they pray for the tiny newborn in the NICU. This family who wants her waits to call her their own. They don’t yet hear her morning cries or see her sleepy eyes at dawn. They don’t hear the sound of her birth mother letting go of tears that fall like rain in the morning’s silence.
Annie Hindman’s work has been published with The Good Mother Project and Mothers Always Write. She volunteered as a Creative Nonfiction reader and editor with The Tishman Review. A wife, mother, writer, and wisher of good will, Annie writes between the lines of her days.