A Saturday Drive

It’s raining out today. It was raining out on Saturday, too, but it was a steadier and harder rain. On Saturday, Sam and I were driving down the highway to visit his Grandma. He had brought along one of his video players which quickly lost its charge. As he put it away in the glove compartment, I shut off the radio, and we quietly headed down the highway together.

Outside, the steady rain ate away at the decaying snow and breaths of grey fog struggled to rise before coming to rest over the low valleys and the river that ran beside us.

I listened to the tapping of the rain for several quiet miles, and it reminded me, like so many things, of so many years ago. I don’t know if Sam was listening to the rain or to his own thoughts or to both, but as we drove on, I broke the silence by telling Sam that at times, I find there’s something comforting and peaceful about the sound of the falling rain.

I told Sam that the sound of the rain reminded me of a time when I was about his age. I told him about how I had a van and how, on dull and grey rainy days, I would sometimes drive to a place where I could park and lay down in the back of the van and just listen to the quiet and the rain as it tapped on the walls of my cocoon, and how there was a special kind of comfort in those moments.

I told Sam about how, years before that, I had a spot where I would sometimes walk to, in slow but steady rains. It was at the far end of a field on the neighboring school grounds, where there was a large cement culvert which sat hidden by a ring of tall reeds and grass. Only the mouth of this man-made cave was exposed, and inches below it sat a small, puddle sized pond.

On rainy days, I would go down to this pond and climb just inside the mouth of the culvert. Almost able to stand, I would straddle the small stream of rainwater that flowed from out of the darkness, and passed under my legs, before emptying into the pond below. And I would listen as the water fell onto the pond and I would watch as the rain-born ringlets appeared on the pond and then faded over and over again.

And I told Sam how, when I couldn’t get down to the pond, I would lay on my bed and stare out the adjoining window and watch as the rain washed down my now deserted street. And how sometimes, I would open the window- just enough to hear the rain as it filtered through the trees and bushes in the front yard below. And how sometimes, I would open the window just a little bit further, and I would feel the rain as it filtered through the screen, brushing against my skin.

Sam, like always, smiled and listened, never saying very much.

As I finished reminiscing, we continued on our way, driving through the fog and listening to the quiet, and the rain as it tapped against our cocoon.