Rain-Watching

I love my grandfather. I call him Granddaddy. Though he may have some time left on earth, I am afraid, due to Alzheimer’s disease, that his story is finished. He no longer remembers his children, grandchildren, or great grandchildren. He does not even have the strength to clip his own fingernails. He exists.

This morning, as I noticed the rain from my garage, I recalled sitting with Granddaddy in his garage, rain-watching. We would sit in small wooden ladder-back chairs at the edge of the garage and watch as the rain soaked his red and dingy-white-faced Herefordshire cattle in the undulate green fields. We watched as the snow ball bush limbs became arched as the blooms were weighed down with the water. Rain drops splattered in small mud pools. Swift little currents formed in the gray gravel drive, carving grooves and ruts. Time seemed to magically slow down. An hour of a good rain was like a long afternoon.

I do not know what Granddaddy thought about for I remember him being mostly silent while rain-watching. Maybe he thought of the war, fence mending, or dinner; or maybe he wondered what I would grow up to be. I do not know. I just remember wondering why he wanted to watch the rain.

So today as the morning rain splattered violently on my black suburban asphalt driveway, I sat with my son Gabriel and watched the rain, wondering what Granddaddy thought about when he used to watch the rain.