The sky finally opened tonight, albeit only somewhat, seeping through some of the rain that had been building, teasing this parched parcel of Earth for so many days.
It wasn’t a deluge, nor was it a even much of a pattering of drops on shingles, a soft percussion to the harshness of the past near-two hundred of days. It wasn’t any of these, nor was it any of the other numbered types of rain Douglas Adams depicted in So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish. It certainly wasn’t Type17, that’s for sure.
No, tonight, when the clouds could take no more, they merely revealed their fault lines, traceable through the moisture slipping through those cracks and falling to earth, moistening the ground, as an eye tears when the wind is just so. But, despite the distant thunder, there was little wind, little much of anything, save a little bit of rain.
And yet it seemed sufficient, those sundry drops somehow satisfying the thirst of those below. It wasn’t the need to saturate the ground to make the crops grow or refill the aquifer so much as it was the need to simply relieve the pressure that had been building, literally and figuratively, knowing what was inevitable but just on some precipice unknown—what it is that keeps us up nights despite knowing the nourishment sleep can bring to mind and body but staying up anyway, worrying unnecessarily. An uncomfortable tension between two forces at odds with one another until both just succumb and let happen what we are powerless to keep from happening.
Sometimes, even the sky just needs a good cry.