When I hear gentle rain falling like sighs I think of the days when hot chocolate could fix anything. When seeing a handful of my Grandmother’s cinnamon biscuits on her special plates patterned with thatched cottages gave me a thrill.
A gentle rain is falling tonight. It is like tiny fingertips softly patting you on the arm. It is so gentle you barely get wet even if you stand in the garden for ten solid minutes.
It is as if someone is sitting right inside one of the rainclouds cupping each and every raindrop and cradling it tenderly, loathe to let it go. But raindrops in hands get slippery, they jostle and push and misbehave, even for rain gatherers. So the rain gatherer, regretfully, must release them. But it is a gentle rain this night so they fall singularly, slowly.
I light a candle and see it reflected in the glass. It might be a trick cast up by the watery night but I can see the raindrops descending, illuminated, golden, like fireflies looking for a place to land.
Such a gentle, tranquil rain. It might just be the most glorious thing in the world.