The spring rain is falling in noisy sheets and waves. The day is gray. Water droplets caress the infant leaves of the maple tree outside the window.
Living in this house, my parent’s house, the house that I grew up in, rainy days bring this shadow memory.
On a day like this, Dad was in the house (rather than out in the garage). He stood over the stove top, stirring and stirring. He didn’t want the caramel creation to burn. I can remember the sweet smell of the air, the laughter and lightness in the goal.
The definition of “home”.