This morning I woke to the sound of rain. An irregular but continuous stream of water hits my back deck. At my feet, the black cat stretches, jumps lightly down to the floor, and makes his way into the kitchen.
I make my way too, to the other side of the bed, where I throw one leg over husband’s belly. My other leg travels down along side his until it slides into place like a puzzle piece. My feet cradle his. My arm rests on his chest, where it rises and falls with his steady breathing.
Now, the rain sounds different. Now, I hear small drops falling on the broad elephant ear leaf just outside the window. The sound is taut, like a drum. In the distance, a train whistle. Husband stirs and turns to slide his arm under my head. “My favorite sound,” he murmurs. And in the dark whispers to me the remnants of his dream.
Outside the rain slows, then stops. I rise to make tea.