She looked out the window at the skies, which promised rain in the darkening gray. The air had a cool crispness, yet also hinted of the rain on the horizon. Stepping outside, she breathed it all in. The garden chores would have to be done quickly, or she would be caught in the storm that crept ever quicker towards her. The tomatoes were needing to be suckered, for they were bursting from their round, metal cages every which way. One plant though, was not thriving like the others. It needed a closer look. Tenderly, she mounded more dirt around the base of the plant and mulched it with last winter's fallen leaves.
Back inside, the coffee perculating its steady blurps, she stood at the door and watched the storm. The first gust of wind swirled tree branches and sent the birds fleeing to safer perches. A low rumble in the distance and the call of the mourning doves bringing it closer yet. Leaving her post at the door, she poured the coffee, and returned to the door. A flash. A drop, then another. She loved these quiet mornings, so rare now that the house was full of children. It took her back to her own childhood. A quiet morning on her grandmother's porch. Sitting with Papa on the swing, chains rattling, the wood creaking under their weight, and the smell of his pipe. Papa telling her to be still and listen to the rain that was on its way. And they sat side by side, and waited.