That time we landed in Hawaii at 1230am on Valentines Day and it drenched us in seconds, bounced off the pavement all those stories below us, but it was warm. I’d never known tropical rain before. It felt like something mysterious. A curtain in a doorway to a place you would like to visit but have trepidation because you know it will change you, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for that.

That time I lived in a house with a tin roof, and the thunder off in the distance made Gala go mental until I built her a pillow fort. it would rattle and harangue us, daring us to step out onto the roof porch in the hopes of stinging our toes with kisses.

The tiny cabin at the end of the road. There is nothing like the sound of rain hurling itself into a tiny lake while frogs cheer it on.

The house I grew up in, gambrel roof with wooden shingles a perfect foil for the sound of a torrential downpour until the moss grew thick enough to dampen it.

Drownwave. 2003. It started on Friday morning and didn’t let up until Monday afternoon. As close to the feeling of being washed out to sea while standing on firm ground.

When walking home barefoot on that Sunday down Commercial Drive with Nikki’s hula hoops, marveling at the sudden summer downpour, flashes of lightning with no thunder. Later realizing it was a man taking my picture. He sent them to me before I’d even made it home, a few blocks later.