It used to rain like this when my Grandma would take me for walks downtown. It was never my Grandma who’d say “you’ll catch your death of cold.” That was my Mom. And she was right, for Grandma at least. Only, it was pneumonia.
I pick up my umbrella and step out onto the avenue. I catch sight of my reflection in a puddle as I pass. The ripples make my face look much older, much more wrinkled. And, somehow, much happier. The rain is warm, and so is my Grandmother’s smile.
I smile, shake my head and walk on.