A Rainy Day

I’ve always loved a storm. Thunder rumbling, a gentle rain on a spring day. To me it doesn’t get much better than that. I’ve loved days like this for as long as I can remember. My Aunt Pat loved days like this too.
Pat was the sweetest and maybe the saddest person I have ever met. I adored her. When my parents would take me to see her, she would be in bed in the middle of the day. So, I would crawl in the bed with her. She was drenched in sweat but I didn’t mind. She smelled funny but I didn’t mind. As I got older I realized the funny smell was the result of a liter of vodka a day. I didn’t know she was an alcoholic. All I knew was my love for her. My heart read hers like an old book that had been worn from all the time spent in it’s pages. I think of her often when the rain dances on my skin. I think of her softness.. her sadness, but mostly I think of holding her hand while we stood in the rain. I think of her smile as she turned to me and said “This. This is my church.” I was ten years old and somehow that sentence made more sense to me than anything I had ever heard before. She passed away shortly after that. Everyone said she was broken. I believed she was whole and perfect. Now she is free. As free as the rain that dances on my skin today. And I think of her.