The children run down the stairs to wait, while Scott hauls a teetering stack of school supplies down after them. Half a minute passes and thunder claps with a downpour. I’ve already poured the coffee and washed the table, ready for them to leave on the first day of school.
No child-drama this morning, thanks be to God. They must’ve worn themselves out with last night’s bedtime drama, tears and requests for water and the insistence of a light turned out, a light turned on, the door slightly ajar but not too much ajar.
The girl bursts in the door, remembering her violin for orchestra practice. She tells me her pants are already soaked through, but she smiles under the bright pink hood of her raincoat. She has new shoes, and she loves school without reservation. The boy would rather stay home with his comfortable books, and he is glum about change. But I bet something will spark his whimsy today, and he will bring me a story or two.
On my desk I find an origami water lily and a carefully forged signature of Minerva McGonnigal. I tuck Minerva into the collection of odd papers near the phone, and the water lily will keep me company.
The wash of rain is heavy, steady. I watch the bright edge of eastern sky disappear to gray, feel the wind wash through, and rush to close the windows. Not just a passing shower, then. Fruitful rain.