She counts the days and seasons by the sounds of the rain on the tin roof. When she was still a child, the rain songs soothed her most nights. Rain strumming or beating a wild rhythm gave her hope for a harvest, or fear for the safety of her family and home. The rain pelting the roof the night her mother’s husband attacked her reminded her of the sound of warrior drumbeats as militants invaded her family’s village.
When her child came screaming into the world a steady, cascading, waterfall sounding rain slid down the sloped roof of the hut. It was healing and cleansing as the child she should never have conceived came into the world bringing with her a harvest rain.
As thunder and lightning ignited her world, heavy drops of rain attacked the roof the night she killed the man both she and her daughter called father.