Here’s how sky looked like last night after too many rain-soaked days. There was no rainbow, but sky sang her lullaby in similar tones.
I remember rain in the convent.
If I wanted to hear it, I had to climb the stairs all the way to the fifth floor and then take the steps to the attic, where there was nothing but roof between me and the storm. The attic was also a place where I could usually count on being completely alone. A rarity. There, amid the trunks and empty suitcases that stood in neat rows beneath the slanted eaves, I sat and listened. It seemed sacred to me. It’s rhythmic pitter-patter stilled me and was the closest I ever thought I would come to hearing the Voice of God.