Rainsong

Normally the pitter-patter sound of rain on the bathroom skylight at night-time brings to mind comforting memories as I listen from my heavily-blanketed nest in bed. I recall burrowing into my sleeping bag in the bottom bunk-bed, in the attic of my Grandmother's cabin. In my memory, the gentle sound of the rain adds soft percussion to the soundtrack of a now-raucous-and-now-quiet card game my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles play below me. The intermittent bursts of Aunt Eldy's contagious laughter warm the cabin like the notes in a sax quartet.

But last night, the rain-song on my roof chilled me. I envisioned the people we met on Saturday at Tent City, huddled under scratchy woolen blankets, with nothing but the thin fabric of a tent or tarp to keep out the rain and cold.

Specifically, I thought about Amber, a woman so pregnant that one might justifiably whisper "whoa" upon seeing the size of her bulging middle. There can be no doubt that Amber is housing a goodly human being in her belly, despite the fact that Amber herself has nothing but a tent to call home.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplating how many times that night Amber would heave herself from the metal cot, leave the relative warmth of her tent, and brave the rain to waddle her way, through the mud, to the row of port-a-potties that serve as Tent City's restroom. I wonder whether she had batteries for her flashlight or if she stumbled around in the dark, fervently wishing her baby boy would stop boogying on her bladder. I wonder if she lay awake, too, worrying where she'll live when the baby comes, or, like most expectant mothers, questioning whether she's ready to become a mother, and what kind of mother she'll be.

"There are no children living at Tent City," the Welcome Tent Woman tells me on Saturday as we unload some food and supplies. She is unaccountably bright-eyed and chipper for someone who spends each night nigh under the stars. Her sparkling eyes reflect the flame of a hope that refuses to be extinguished, in spite of her circumstances.

I'd like to stay and ask her about those eyes, but the girls are Wild Things, running in and out of the Tent Pantry, declaring "You sure have a lot of shelves! And a lot of coffee! And a lot of juice! That's so silly!" The girls see the port-a-potties and, to my chagrin, muster enough pee to justify their use.

We pile into the van, and as we drive away, Eleanor says, pointing, "I want to stay in that tent."

"Well, that tent is someone's home right now, and you can't stay in someone's home unless you know them, and you are invited," I say to her.

"Were we invited?," Sylvia wants to know. "No," I reply.

"Well, they have juice there," says Eleanor, revealing her motive. Ah yes, a place where the juice runs freely, I think, a veritable juice paradise.

We drive home, and spend the afternoon indoors, as the rain drizzles outside. Sylvia helps me bake cookies, comfortably nestling her 4-year-old body on the kitchen counter as she tastes each ingredient (except the eggs) in her little bowl.

While dinner cooks on the stove, we watch Dan Zanes music videos on the computer. Entranced by Zanes' amazing only-in-America-do-you-see-such-straight-white-teeth and his funny, wild hair, we take turns flapping our arms like chickens and turning them into waving trees as we sing, all around the kitchen (cockadoodle doodle do), all around the kitchen (cockadoodle doodle do)...

That day, nothing more is said about Tent City, or their Juice Stockpile. Instead, our thoughts trickle out like a leaky faucet, over the course of the coming days.

This morning, Sylvia looks up from her legos to make an announcement, which she declares as a definitive solution to a problem we've all been pondering: "When someone in our house dies, then one of the people who don't have a home can come and live in our house instead of the person who died." "Hmm," I say hopefully, the lilt in my voice indicating that would be one way to solve the problem.

We're listening to Dan Zanes again on the way to gymnastics. He's singing, "pay me you owe me, pay me my money down, pay me or go to jail, pay me my money down." Sylvia responds, "That man wants the money so he can buy a home."

I recall the out-of-the-blue question Sylvia asked me last week on the way to preschool: "Mama, why did God not build a house for him?" Without explanation, I know instantly she is referring to the man at our exit, the one with the sign that reads, "Homeless. Anything Helps. God Bless."

I don't know how to answer this question, and I say so. "I know God wants everyone to live in a safe and happy way, Sylvia, because God loves everyone. But I don't really know why some people have homes while others don't."

"Yeah, that's not fair, right Mama?," Sylvia asks.

I wonder whether she's thinking too much about the man at our exit, and the people at Tent City. Surely these matters are too weighty for a 4-year-old to bear.

Then I catch myself.

Sylvia is safe. She does not need to be shielded from thinking of others, from demonstrating concern beyond herself.

I want her to listen to the rain, and know this: Sometimes the melody is joyful, and sometimes it is sorrowful.

Both songs are music, longing to be heard.