Inside, listening to heavy rain fall.
Though I have no doubt this sound will become more and more familiar the longer I live in England, it will always remind me of those few, precious, rainy days we had when I was in elementary school.
In third and fourth grades, my classrooms were in thin-roofed temporary buildings, and on those rare days in winter and springtime when the much-needed rains would come, it was like sitting inside a drum.
s meant hope and life. I know that for some rain has been destructive beyond imagining in the wake of two powerful hurricanes. In the very different climate of the dry southwest, rain was always something different. Because water is so precious in California, a fact of which I was aware even then as we toiled through a nearly decade-long drought, that pounding sound on thin rooftops and splashing against windows evokes a sense of safety and comfort.
In a strange way, as I sit in this small backyard guest house in an Oxford suburb, listening to the rain come down, I feel more at home in England than I yet have, bringing to mind memories of a blessedly happy childhood.
Rain bringing life and signifying hope for things to come.

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