I Wish It Would Rain Down

          The rain was cold today. In some parts of our state there were icy roads, and accidents. My coworkers and I kept a close eye on the weather all day. By the end of the workday, the temperature was near 40°F, but still a cold rain pelted my raincoat. I met my writing critique group at Dunkin Donuts and ordered a hot Macchiato. I love my critique group, almost as much as I love coffee.

          As I drove home—my mind swirling—an old song came on the radio, I Wish It Would Rain Down by Phil Collins. I smiled and got dreamy-eyed.          

         

          My mind floated back to a cold day in the past. I squatted on the bank of a creek that runs cold through Gatlinburg, Tennessee. On a big flat rock out in the middle of the creek with the clear water rushing past, stood a skinny five-year-old with a brightly colored sweater and animated hands. My only child at the time. He belted out Mr. Collins’ lyrics at the top of his lungs.

          He sang to me. He sang to the creek and the trees and the birds. No microphone or stage lights needed. That was almost thirty years ago. It stormed that night in the mountains while we slept in our warm hotel room, and the next morning the white-capped rapids changed the creek. It was no longer a safe place for a budding singer to practice.

           Many storms have raged since that day when my sweet child sung the words of a grown man’s song. He has sung many songs since that day. But that day—and that song—were special for a moment. A moment that will never leave me.

          At this time of year, we make big promises to ourselves. I have resolved to read more, to listen to more music, and of course, to write more. I want to love more, give more, and receive more. I’m ready to stand on my own rock and sing to the universe, “I wish it would rain down on me.”