Some days I think back to that Sunday in Mississippi, the old farm house with the rusted tin roof. I was sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the front porch, just waiting for the rain to come in. The sky had turned grey as the cool wind picked up and you could smell the moisture in the air mixing with the smell of cut grass from earlier. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, just breathing it all in. The ice cubes clinking around in my glass of sweet tea as I Idly swirled it around, day dreaming more than anything else. I slumped down in the chair and kicked my feet up on the railing as the rain started coming down, slow at first, like the slow hand of a teasing lover. The droplets that were hitting the tin roof echoed across my skin as I felt my stress start melting away. Meanwhile, off in the distance, I heard the faint roll of thunder adding its sounds to my little symphony as the rain started coming down faster. There was even the occasional sound of pick-up truck tires driving down the wet road. And me? Well, I didn’t accomplish much that day. I just sat there, eyes closed, letting the rain wash me away to wherever it was going.