I listen to my son on the piano. His fingers are light and fluid in airy play like the raindrops in soft fall. He uses the pedals and the sound changes like thunder in the depths of cloud. I sit outside and watch rain fall under cover of porch stoop, rare of lighting’s flash that draws more forceful thunder roll.
My son is in his element, and I in world’s; rain’s pause and slow and settle of the day—not the violence of forecast-omen, but a gentle peace that arrives.
I smoke a cigar thanking God for all.
What have I done to be so blessed?
I don’t need an answer. Gratitude and thanksgiving, silent prayers—these, for me, are enough.