From our balcony, I see and hear rain pour from the sky daily it seems like.

Today, the alarm clock, okay, my phone, jangled in my ear telling me Cole needed to get ready for class. In my groggy morning state, I hear a familiar sound. But just the pitter-patter sound. No flashes. No rumbles. Just the light ping of water hitting the window ledge. I prop myself against my pillow and bend the blinds just enough to see a cloudy sky crying at 7:30 a.m.

Poor, Cole, I think. Glad we got him an umbrella. But then, I remember, I can drive him. He has class but I don't have to be to my early morning work "class" until 9 a.m. Plenty of time to slug on some clothes, probably including a jacket tucked back in the closet. But it's so early.

Back in college, I always sighed at rainy days. They were few, luckily, but it still rained. The last week of senior year during finals week, Lawrence turned into a rainy town. Well, me, I am a little stubborn about walking in the rain. I actually don't mind it a whole lot. I just pulled on my jacket, made sure the contents of my book bag were waterproof and strolled along to class. Sure, I was soggy. My shoes certainly squeaked across the tile floors, but so did everyone else's. I would dry out during class. I am not a witch, I won't melt.

One professor did note he thought I was smart enough to know about the invention of the umbrella. Guess I knew but didn't like the hassle.

Back to this morning. I could have said, huff it. I could have said, remember your umbrella. But instead, we had five more minutes of sleep. Then the jingle went off again. We both climbed out of bed. We both got dressed. He put his sandwich in his bag, along with two brownies I made. Yes, I made brownies. I pull my new glasses out so I can make sure I can see.

I drop him off at class. Scurry back home. Pour my usual cup of juice. Sit down at my computer and stare out the window. So much rain and every student walking in it right now is complaining. They have clingy clothes. They feet drip. They look at the forecast in hopes that the downpour will stop by the time they leave class. But for people back in Kansas and Nebraska, they would just be thankful. In Nebraska, 98 percent of the state has hit exceptional and extreme drought measures. 98 percent.

So, while the rain pours, I open up the screen door to listen to the moisture soak in, wishing it could be used elsewhere right now, but I suppose, Virginia needs rain. Especially if it is going to support all these pretty trees.