Took a break from the Fitzgerald and stood in class today looking out the window over the small buildings and the banyan trees, the sky overcast and pouring thunderous rain in windy sheets as the students read aloud. Their voices dim and muted, echoing behind like some memory long gone while I wonder about the rain.
My friend from when I was a little boy told me a story this week about walking the long roller coaster road up Gray's Hill into the gravel beyond Dooghie past the one room school house with the clown on the door, getting caught out in the rain under an old evergreen. One and only time her Dad had to come get them on a walk in the warm truck with the heat cranked up. She still remembers.
Everyone has stories about rain.
Here in Taiwan tonight we ordered a pizza and sat on the floor putting Lego houses together. The little fingers and hands of my girls so perfect for these button sized pink plastic flowers and swing sets and fence posts and window sills. Lego's have come a long way since I was a boy.
Memory washes us clean. In the end, it's all we have.