Remember that quiet morning when you stood at the window, watching the rain trace paths down the glass? The children’s disappointment echoed through the house—another canceled soccer game, another plan washed away. When does the rain become a friend? you whispered. I didn’t answer, but I watched you turn the moment into something warmer. That warm porridge you stirred? It hit me right then—that’s when I realized what we’ve always known, deep down.
The Quiet Way of Turning Things
You’ve always had this gift—the gentle way of reshaping the world when the rain comes down. The way playgrounds become indoor jungles with bed sheets for vines.
And that’s when I saw it—the way you make the rain a character in the story, not the villain—like when we used to laugh through the downpour ourselves. That lightness you bring? It’s not just patience.
It’s the way you teach the children to find the rhythm in it all—that same rhythm you once showed me when we danced in the storm.
The Weight We Carry Together
There’s a particular kind of tiredness that comes with parenting—the kind that sits in the silence between the rain’s drops. The children saw you collect rainwater in your hands yesterday, and you explained that was the earth’s secret language.
You—you were the one who taught them to listen for the rhythm of raindrops on the roof. That lullaby wasn’t planned, but oh, how it settled in their hearts.
We’re the umbrella. The listener, and sometimes the song.
Later, when I asked, This never-ending storm—how heavy is it for you to bear?, you stirred the soup with that quiet focus. And the rain will pass through us, but leave no space in our hearts puddled.
The Rhythm That Lives in Us
I found the chart you made for them—Rainy Day Points. How they earned stars for the rainwater they collected, how they learned to listen for the way laughter harmonizes with downpour.
In the evenings, when the storm was loudest, you’d guide their hands—small fingers tracing the rain’s pattern on the window. That rhythm? It became our secret dance.
We’d fall asleep listening to the beat of the weather, and I’d hear you whisper, Is this how we make the music? The answer was in the way you’d made space—a warm, dry place—where our family could feel the storm’s beauty without the cold.
The Melody We Carry Forward
This morning, when the fifteenth day of rain began, the children were already making a wind chime from old spoons. You kissed the little one’s head, whispering, When the storm is loudest—that’s when we’re the melody. Remember?
The afternoon came, and we found ourselves watching the kids play. I reached for the remote, expecting the news. Instead, that playlist—the one you made for me during that long winter—the one with the song about rain.
You took my hand, your eyes still holding the same quiet strength I’ve always known. See, you said, we have the rhythm inside us. And we can weather anything.
Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside? You were right—we were already home, humming our own rainy day tune.
Source: AI is ready to read our minds. Will the law help us keep our thoughts private?, Livemint, 2025/09/23