RAIN

The Imp's younger sister stood nose pressed to the window. Her breath misted the glass. From time to time she raised an arm, using a sleeve to wipe the window clear. She seemed fascinated by the raindrops a sudden gust of wind had thrown like a handful of pebbles at the window where they formed clear, magical beads before turning into rivulets, whose path her finger traced dreamily down the glass. Beyond the window the weather showed dull and overcast, dark grey clouds promising heavier rain to follow, the lawns and garden already a deeper, lusher green, shrubs shaking themselves like so many dogs in the occasional gusts of wind.

She was quietly pensive, not her usual ball-of-energy self. I watched her furtively, pretending to be immersed in my book, wondering how long her fascination would last, momentarily awaiting the inevitable question, the end of my peace and quiet. The Imp himself had gone off between showers with a mate to entertain the neighbours, God bless them, and so there was no sibling one-upmanship, only a blessed peace for this old man. I savoured the moment, aware that too soon my grown-up’s thimble-full of wisdom might be challenged.

Another gust of wind and flurry of raindrops against the window, a moment or two more of silence, then a small sigh and: "Uncle Jay?" Too good to last, I thought, trying to conceal my amusement and pretend interest only in my book. "Mmm, yes, Angel, what is it?"

Well, if her brother was 'The little Imp' that made her 'The little Angel': we made no distinction as to her being a good or a bad little angel. The Imp bore his appellation rather proudly and was rather scornful in a manly way of his sister’s title. We doubted, however, that she would be amused if we ever referred to her as a bad angel!

"Uncle Jay, is it true that when it rains the Angels are crying?"

I knew I should have kept my nose in my book and simply ignored the interruption.

"Well,” I said, stalling for inspiration, “let’s see. That's a pretty imaginative way of thinking about rain— not that rain is really an ordinary kind of thing, mind you—and some people would find the idea beautiful, but I’m not sure they would think it were really true. Of course there are those people who would scoff at it as nonsense and demand what they would call “the cold, hard facts!". I don’t think they really mean exactly that, because ‘facts’ aren’t really ‘cold’ and they’re not really ‘hard’ or, in the sense meant, absolutely true. I think most people want their 'facts' to be interesting and a bit exciting. Sadly, sometimes when a thing is explained as a fact it loses its magic, its mystery, and becomes a plain old fact about which we are no longer curious. Strange, isn’t it, the different ways we think about things? Now then, Angel, what do you think?”

"Umm, well, Uncle Jay, I think I just love imagination but I do quite like it when ‘facts’ are explained, too."

"Hey, kid, top marks! That's a great answer. You’re a pretty clever little kid, aren’t you? Just remember there’s always room for both, but that sometimes they can both get a bit mixed up together, too, and that ‘facts’ aren’t always really ‘facts’! Imagination is the rain that makes the desert of our everyday world blossom - it’s in the words of our poets and the inspiration of our scientists.”

Get off your soap-box, old man, before you bore or confuse the poor kid!

A shy pause, then: “Uncle Jay, I like it when you call me ‘kid’.

Wow! Another chapter in this old man’s Book of Revelations?

“Why? Don’t you like being called ‘Angel’?”

“Yes, I like that too, but being called ’kid’ kind of makes me feel more real. ‘Angel’ is pretty, and I love it, especially when it annoys The Imp, but it’s a bit unreal, a bit too imag--imagin-- , whatever.”

“Imaginative.”

“Yep, ‘imaginative’; a bit like the ‘Angels’ Tears’ thing.”

“Exactly! Point made, kid! Well now, I see the rain has stopped and there’s even a lovely rainbow out there.”

“But there’s no pot of gold at its end, is there, Uncle Jay?”

“Oh, you never can tell. Let’s get our raincoats and umbrellas and walk down to the Golden Arches and see what little pot of gold we might find there. Nothing like a walk in the rain ..... when it’s not,” I hastened to amend, lest my ‘facts’ be corrected.

“Oh, yes, please, Uncle Jay,” she cried, eyes fairly dancing, “but let’s not remember to tell The Imp; let’s keep it our little secret.”

Cunning old coot, I congratulated myself, wonderful diversionary tactics. You didn’t really want to get into all those dry old facts about rain, and whether the clouds were ‘heavy with rain’, and evaporation and condensation and hail and all that stuff. Anyway, you need a break yourself. A body can only stand so much fact or imagination at any one time. As for the ‘Pot of gold at the end of a Golden Arches rainbow’? Well I ask you!

We raced each other to the door. I smiled to myself as a little hand found its way into mine. I wondered just how long it would be before The Imp was told about our little walk in the rain and of her little ‘pot of gold’. Our Little Angel was not quite a perfect little being but neither was that a cold, hard fact!