April

It's the middle of the afternoon, but I sit in a darkness that has moved in, creeping like a spider in the shadows. The brilliant sunlight from earlier has dissipated, dimmed, diminished, and the darkness is here. I sit as still as possible, holding my breath. The teacher lectures on, writing on the chalkboard, explaining the lesson, but we are all still, waiting. An all-too-familiar aroma wafts in through the open windows and door. It is the aroma of expectation, of hope. The teacher pauses, breathes it in, and smiles. He walks to the open door and peers out. In two more steps, he is at the edge of the cement veranda. I cannot see his face, but I expect it looks a great deal like mine, like all of our faces.

The sheer curtains start to dance, feather-light, to the exotic melody we can only hear with our eyes. Goosebumps rise on my arms. A pile of quizzes on the teacher's desk begin to flutter at the edges. He steps back inside and moves a book on top of the pile just as the top quiz begins to blow across the desk. He returns to the black board and places the chalk back in the board gutter. As he begins speaking again, we hear the subtle difference in his voice: a hesitancy, a faltering. A waiting.

Then we hear the single tap over our heads. Just one tap. Then another and another, slowly at first, then tapping a rhythm above us. The teacher stops talking, and his smile becomes more pronounced. We are not listening to him anymore. Some of us look out the windows and door; others just look up. I let out my breath and intake a fresh, deep breath. 

"Go on then," the teacher says. We leave our seats in a jumble, crashing into each other and spilling out of the open door. Some stand tentatively on the edge of the veranda, holding their hands out to where the roof edge overhangs several inches. Their eyes light up as their hands become splashed with random drops. I jump off the veranda onto the grass and raise my face to the sky. I remove my splattered glasses and open my mouth, stick out my tongue. One drop, two, three. I close my mouth, satisfied. 

From the doorway, our teacher calls us back inside. The tap-tap on the roof is becoming louder as we file back in, laughing and chatting. Within seconds of our taking our seats, the teacher can barely be heard over the pounding on the roof. He turns on the overhead lights and loudly asks us to read an assignment in our textbooks.

Ten minutes later, the pounding has ceased. There is no longer even a steady tap-tap. As the bell rings, we gather our belongings and file outside. Small puddles have formed on the sidewalks, and the grass is wet and sparkles in the breaking sunlight. But the parched soil still remains parched, waiting to receive its libation in coming months. 

It could be days or even weeks before another rain, and probably two months or so before daily thunderstorms. But we smile and inhale deeply, as though a curse has been lifted. The first rain signals soccer season, the last quarter of the school year, and upcoming summer vacation. But it also signals a season of green and growing things, mangoes and roasted corn, new life. And we all feel just a bit more alive today.