I walk and reminisce. I’m transported, seven years old again. I’m jumping in puddles with my brother. We are laughing and wet, saving worms to the grass, the hand of God unlikely to the task but our own small hands eager to it. Popsicle stick boats jostle each other on their way down the gutter, prevented from the sewer by the eroding damn we have pushed together from branches and leaves. There is the sound of cars zooming in the distance and the pitter-patter of the rain on the nylon hood over my head.
A booming thunderclap brings me back to the present and I turn my face to the wind and welcome its wet. Good for the farmers, the thought tugging a reluctant smile from the corner of my mouth, but brutal for the homeless, as I step over a man sprawled under the awning, his legs akimbo and soaked. Two bucks go into his cup to maybe buy him some warmth, if not dryness. The smile on my lips spreads to the other corner of my mouth as I half grimace and reflect – that guy probably was a farmer. A shake of the head and I keep walking.