Barefoot in the Rain

This morning it rained.

While Austin napped, Nicole and I finished her daily episode of Daniel Tiger. As the television turned off and silence enveloped us, my ears picked up on the light pitter-patter of droplets on our rooftop. We raced outside and stood under the eve, pressing our backs to the front door to keep dry. The air was cool, the ground wet, the colors of the trees and flowers breathtakingly vibrant. Misty clouds hugged the mountainside. A light breeze brought the world to life.

The scene was mesmerizing. Like a snake charmer, it coaxed Nicole out from her shelter. Down one porch step. Pause. A few raindrops on her head, then retreat. Down the step again, and back up. The dance continued for a few minutes until, at last, her bare feet hit the sidewalk. Her tangled mess of bedhead hair was gently tamed by the heavens.

Down to the gutter to drop twigs in the torrent. Across the grass to examine a bush. Up the driveway to show me a flower clutched in her fist. In her eyes I saw the quintessential gleam of childhood. Flecks of dirt and grass coated the soles of her feet, clinging like the remnants of carefree days gone by. Her joy drew me out--and then I was barefoot in the rain. The smell of wet earth filled my nostrils and the wind raised goosebumps on my arms.

It felt like nostalgia.