I can’t see Jack anymore. He brought the truck in, but I can’t see Jack.

The sound of the rain is stronger here in the pantry because we still haven’t replaced that bit of the roof that went away with the storm last Christmas. I love the rain’s echoes on the tin patch. With a soft rain like this one the pitter-drum is soothing, hypnotic. Like Jack’s thick fingers gentle-tapping the dinner table. The sunday silent. Drinking coffee slowly. A real storm though, those balls of water hitting tin, are disturbing, like someone pounding frantically to get in. A bit too loud.

I’ve been listening to the rhythm of this soft rain 10 or 15 minutes now. I came in for something. Something. Tomatoes or beans perhaps. I can’t even remember what I’m making for supper. I’ve just gotten stuck here, with my hand on the splintery old door we use as a table for all our jars - empty and full, milk and mason. The wood under my fingers feels damp, a damp that will never leave, it will just peel the wood’s layers away in bits. I came in for applesauce, or something, and saw Jack bring the truck up, but was watching the rain slip slide down the little square window and missed where he went. Perhaps into the barn to check on the kittens.

Meatloaf. That’s it. It’s almost done, in the oven. I came to get some of the beets I canned last year. There were few, but they were sweet. I’d thought the purple-red of them might get Jack out of his rain gloom. He has such a hard time indoors. But even he can only stay wet so long. Meatloaf. I hate meatloaf. And I love the rain. I love the excuse to stand in a corner and watch, to listen, to knit, to listen, to bake, to listen, to move slowly and listen to the rhythms of the rain.