There’s a beautiful gentle rain falling outside my open patio door. In its persistent softness it reminds me of home and connects me to the people I love on the wet west coast of Canada. Rain in Kingston has generally been something foreign to me and as assaulting to the senses as life in general can be in Kingston – rain here is loud, it is sudden, it is shocking, and it soon passes.

After a lovely sunny morning coffee at nearby Devon House I came home for a quiet afternoon of writing and paperwork. Unusually, I have no music playing. I have been sitting in welcome silence. Although I’m using only natural light – with which my corner apartment is flooded – I hardly noticed the change in its quality, so the steady thrumming on the canvas awning came sweetly to my attention. I suppose I should at least have noticed the cool moisture on the breeze.

The sound on the awning reminds me of other times. Of laughter-because-what-else-can-you-do and cuddling in a too-short tent hoping the nylon would resist the Gulf Islands downpour in which said tent had been erected. Of running with my sister from our ‘camp out’ in the yard. Of summer camp in uninsulated cabins and family road trips when we slept in the aluminum trailer. Of sitting between the window and the fireplace watching the rain outside from the comfort velvety safety of my comfy blue couch.

I’ve always enjoyed the sound of this kind of rain, as long as I don’t have to be out in it. The roaring torrents that typify Kingstonian rains and necessitate storm sewers the size of roadways are exotic and impressive. They have their role. But so does this gentler weather, this weather the parched earth has time to adjust to and absorb. This rain that lands as refreshment rather than attack.

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