Thunder rolls in on a Wednesday night in late May.

It's the perfect time of year in Colorado. The grass is still green, the temperatures aren't apocalyptic and huge storms conveniently water your lawn.  The wind helps itself to an open window. It's air that's welcome to a guy like me who can get too hot in March, and in a sort of ancient medicine sort of way I'm hoping the fresh air is good for a sick Sarah.

But there's rain, honey. Sometimes it's just lots of thunder--a big Rocky Mountain show--with no moisture. The lightning teasing catastrophe in the dry tinder of the Colorado forests. But when you hear that first drop against the chimney a weight is washed away. The dust gets a beatdown and you want to breathe again. Things are pretty sweet, you think, as the million tiny drops applaud their own effort.

The sky says, "your big concrete buildings are lame."

It feels good. I think of the glisten running down a blade of grass and into the ground. There's something right about the cycle again and I remember perseverence as an easier thing. There is absolutely nothing wrong in this house (as long as Sarah continues to rest and get better). Perhaps the rain has me delusional. It's like how you feel after a shower. It will fade, the freshness, but for a while you feel more optimistic than normal. The morning air against your wet skin tightens things up and even the mirror seems to like you.

Now a dog lets out a lone bark in the distance. It precipitates the end of the weather. The pitter patter wanes and a nice cool breeze streaks the living room. I try not to think about the garbage carried off the streets and into the Platte River. I'm amazed ducks can even live in there. The smell of rain blows in and I remember having a part in making good things linger.