I like to sleep while it rains,
I like how the clatters caresses my ears,
while I make peace with my bed.
It was different when dad was alive
and we were in the old house.
As a retired police officer
who made a house of his retirement money,
whenever the rain falls, hitting hard on the pans,
like stones hit unsuspecting birds,
dad reads the psalms, reminds the omnipresent of
how he never took bribes, and questions
why the wind chose to blow so hard
against his nest.
He prays, he begs, urging the indifferent wind to
stop, like it did when Jesus told it to.
He repeats his pleas every night
of every rainy season.
And while he does that, I’ll
sit on the sofa half asleep, watching droplets fall
into a welcoming bowl,
from some tiny holes in the ceiling,
muttering the old nursery rhyme:
“rain rain go away,
come again another day…”
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