For me, rain is an invitation for reflection, contemplation, to travel into the past. This is perhaps more common in the days of the coronavirus pandemic. The water has been falling continuously since early this morning, collecting in puddles in the empty streets and hammering the asphalt in slanted sheets. A cool wind sometimes picks up, slithering its way under doors and lashing the rain against the glass. The storm woke me up before dawn this morning, pelting away at the concrete as it filtered its way through the lightwell. I listened to it fall against the background of Franky’s even breaths. The entire world seemed to be asleep, except for me.

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