Relief

The day is unbearably humid. Moisture trickles down from the place where his arm rests at his side, the cotton shorts damp and clinging to the wicker porch chair. Bangs separate on his sister's forehead as they drink from faded aluminum glasses. There is no condensation: what remains are small bits of lemon valiantly floating pulp side up in a sweet, lemony broth.

Two dusty bronzed faces in tender concentration lean toward the board on the wicker foot stool. She absently clicks together the pieces she has stacked, waiting her turn, studying first the threatened pieces in play and hopes for the chance of a counter attack. The air feels so perfectly still, she slides a glance to the tree, the windmill, the weathervane that wait with her in the gathering silence.

Suddenly he shouts and his red checker hops over the black, click, click, click, as he snatches three black disks from the board. Won't it ever rain? she wonders as her disappointed face begins to cloud. Her thought hangs suspended in the soft rustle of leaves as she feels something cool on the wet tracks on her neck. It's here!

The checkers fly as they dash from the porch, taking the stairs two at a time, and race into the wind. Up and around, over and through, the split rail fence is no match for them now, lightning fast over fallow fields of grazing cattle and prairie dogs. They stare upward at the deepest point of swirling silver and stretch wide their arms in thanksgiving. The weighted air thins in twinkles and twirls as they wonder aloud where it will fall first -- the face? no, the tongue! no! the head or the leg -- and the size of the drops.

And then, like a whisper, something grazes his cheek. He holds his breath, not sure what it is, knowing a false guess forfeits the game. But there again: did you feel that? He turns to his sister and follows her gaze as a drop run down her leg. She excitedly lifts her eyes to his as another hits her nose, and together they laugh and dance its cool arrival.