Ma always said the rain was God's tears.

Rain spattered against the window. He crouched against the windowsill, tracing the raindrops tumbling down the glass. He had curled up here with his mother once.

“We have to cheer Him up,” she had said. 

Rain poured from his eyes, drowning his socks, his faith, his breath. 

He had always believed in God, always believed in his mother's stories of goats escaping from their cages and children being given to the sky. 

Today, he didn't mind if God was upset: At least He has Ma.