A Christmas Gift From My Dad

I had been waiting for the thunderstorms for hours, watching their progress on local news, clicking over to the weather channel during Letterman. I went outside several times, finding the sidewalk and the street still bone dry, even though the weatherman said the rain was supposed to be here. The radar image lied to me, the rain wasn't where the green dots said it was. The line came closer slowly, as if it were teasing me, getting to my mother's house only after rain blanketed the rest of the city.
   I went to bed, opening the window a crack so that the cool, moist breeze could waft over me, bringing the sweet scent of rain. I had the blinds open so that I could see the flashes of lightning, strobes that froze raindrops in place, halfway between heaven and earth. The storm passed overhead, thunder rumbling through the clouds and bringing a smile to my face.
   Then it was quiet. So quiet. No car alarms, no neighbors talking, no police helicopters or highway noise or sirens. Just the smooth, even sound of rain falling, and a slight breeze in the naked branches of the trees. Serene. Magical.
   When I was young I used to wait for nights like this, I used to pray for nights like this. In a good year I'd get two or three times where the circumstances aligned, some years I'd wouldn't get even one. But when it happened just right, like it did last night, my father and I would stand out on the front porch together, watching for the lightning and listening to the thunder, ignoring the raindrops the wind spattered us with. We didn't say anything, we didn't need to; we just let it all unfold around us.
   I'm not a particularly spiritual man, and I'm usually more blasphemous than religious, but I'm pretty sure that my father arranged that storm last night. I'm back in Texas only a few days each year, and I get exactly the right kind of storm at exactly the right time of night on one of the days I'm in town... what else am I supposed to think?
   Merry Christmas, Dad. I miss you.