skylight rain

It was raining the first morning I woke up in the house.

Not a drizzle, not polite city rain—but the kind that arrives with a full throat. Heavy. Rhythmic. Loud enough to let you know it’s staying a while. It hit the skylight like a drum, echoing through the top of the house and into the room where I was still half-asleep, on a mattress on the floor.

And I stayed there. Listening.

Rain like that taps something old in me. It reminded me of mornings at my grandparents’ house in Spanish Town—when it would barrel down on the zinc roof and no one rushed to do anything, except maybe make tea. The world would pause, or maybe it just returned to itself.

That’s what the rain sounded like: returning.

It’s strange how sound can move through the body like a memory. How it can remind your nervous system you’re safe. That you’ve heard this before. That you’ve been held by this before.

That morning, I didn’t check my phone. I didn’t start unpacking. I didn’t scroll or play music or even turn on the lights.
I just listened.

The rain was saying: you’re here now.
The kind of here that’s rooted.
The kind that doesn’t rush.
The kind that asks you to stay.

That was the first sound I heard in the house. And I’ve been returning ever since.

—L