Rain at the back door

An original fictional sample story.

The forecast had said light showers. By ten o'clock, rain was running down the window in purposeful streams, and the picnic sandwiches were waiting in the fridge beside a container of cut grapes. My two children stood at the glass as if they could negotiate with the weather by looking disappointed enough.

I offered a film. They had already watched one. I offered building blocks. The blocks had apparently retired. I suggested drawing the picnic we were no longer having, which earned me the particular silence children reserve for adults who have misunderstood the assignment.

Then my older child asked whether we could eat outside anyway. Not at the park, she explained. Just under the little roof by the back door. There was room for a chair, perhaps two if nobody wanted their knees. I almost said no because the answer was already on its way out of my mouth.

Instead, I found three coats. We put a waterproof mat beneath the overhang, where the ground was damp but the rain did not reach directly. I checked that the step wasn't slippery and carried out the sandwiches on the largest tray. The children sat close enough to make an argument possible but, for once, unnecessary.

Outside, the rain sounded bigger. It rattled in the gutter and clicked against the lid of the empty watering can. My youngest said it sounded like frying eggs. His sister thought it was applause. They decided the watering can was putting on a concert and that our sandwiches were the refreshments.

We talked about the places the water would go. Into the soil, along the path, through the drain. My daughter found a leaf resting safely beneath our little roof and floated it in a shallow puddle within arm's reach. We watched it travel a few inches before catching it. The voyage was brief but apparently successful.

After lunch, we stayed until the cold began to creep through our trousers. There was no dramatic moment when the clouds parted. The rain continued doing exactly what it had planned to do, indifferent to our revised afternoon. We gathered our plates, stepped inside, and left our wet things on the mat.

I had towels ready, which felt like the one adult achievement worth celebrating. The children changed into dry clothes and built a block shelter for the watering-can orchestra. Later, when their dad asked about the cancelled picnic, they corrected him. It hadn't been cancelled. It had been at home, in the weather, with very good music.

Illustrative photograph for an original fictional story. Photo: Xavi Cabrera / Unsplash.