Today is an ugly day, the mirror opposite of yesterday. The morning air is damp-chilly after last night’s Rain. The day is dark. On and off rain is predicted. I have no plans, nothing on my dance card, for today, but I’ll give a nod to personal hygiene and take my shower. I may even change my sheets.

The dogs are curled asleep beside each other on the couch. They both love cozy and neither one is fond of the rain. That makes them sensible.

I don’t remember when I started to love the rain. The summer rains were my favorites. I could stay outside and get wet, unless it was a thunder and lightning storm. Winter rains were never gentle, even the slightest rain made me feel cold from my head to my feet when I’d home from school, but I loved finally getting home. I’d put on my flannel pajamas, get comfy in bed and read. I always felt protected by my house. I could hear the rain on the roof and windows, but I was cozy and warm.

When I lived in Ghana, I loved the rainy season. It rained just about very day. The early rains turned the brown trees and grasses to green. The dusty roads disappeared, hardened by the rain. My house and classrooms had tin roofs so the heavy rains muted any sounds. My students read or wrote. At my house, I’d sometimes sit outside protected by the tin awning over my steps and I’d watch the rain. It was mesmerizing. I remember one market day riding my moto to town to shop. I left it, my moto, by one of the market gates. It started to rain but a softer rain so I just kept shopping. When I was finished, I went out the gate and found my moto gone. I heard calling and turned to see the bank guards gesturing to me. They had carried my locked biked across the street to a protected area to keep it dry. Such are Ghanaians.