I leave her in bed as I arise, accompanied by the sound of a rare morning storm. She hasn't quite slept since our son was born; she's awake enough to murmur about them having no schedule this morning, of him no doubt wanting breakfast soon. I acknowledge quietly, so as not to break the spell. Glasses, pajama pants, t-shirt; then glasses again, short socks, smokes. Thus armed, I close the door silent behind me, and go see what's up and about.

I spot one almost immediately - my son. He's always the first to wake up, sometimes by hours. Having heard me, he comes and meets me with a smile - come look at this day that I've found! He walks with me as far as his interest extends, which is the kitchen, where his eyes plead with me. It always kills me to make him work for food, but we have to insist that he ask us out loud. (He'd never speak if he didn't have to.) I'm always very happy to say yes when he manages to get the words out, and ask for his cereal. I grab one of his favorite tiny metal mixing bowls, and pour him full; he bounds off to his playroom with it, smile back in place, as it should be.

The sounds of the storm fascinate me a bit, as it's been far too long. I slip quietly out the kitchen door into the carport, and light up the day's first smoke, dry in the rain. Storms are the only time that I don't regret that I've never owned a garage. The steady damp breeze marches through, as does the sound of thunder, and the pattering of the rainfall holds it all together.

My son comes back to the screen door - he looks confused by all this off-pattern behavior. Mommy asleep? Daddy outside? What in the world is transpiring? I invite him out, despite the T-shirt he slept in. It's not very presentable for the outside world, but it's big enough to be decent. It was hers once, and I remember when.

He's taken by the weather experience as well, the unaccustomed splendor of the rain. He squints into the east, where dawn and the part of the storm that's past are lighting the sky most oddly. He's never seen the world look quite like this, and we stand in silence as we observe it. I try to make myself perceive it as he does, and so together we stand, open-mouthed.

He breaks that spell to return inside - after all, his breakfast is waiting. My cigarette is finished as well, and I consider joining him there. I've awakened hungry.

I stop, however, when I'm almost to the door, and take a critical look at just how the water is falling.

It's not working the way that it should.

I'd forgotten that I'd forgotten to clean out my gutters. Some pounds of debris are blocking the correct flow. The way that it's falling is like that time it leaked in, and that simply won't do for today. I ponder, I grin - what better time for that chore?

I drop my socks on the dry side of the stoop - glasses and cigarettes go on the window ledge. The shed's in the carport, the ladder inside, so I'm still staying dry as I fetch it. My roof slopes down to just seven feet off the ground at the carport end, so it's almost silly to use a ladder to climb to it, but as the storm begins to soak me, I am pleased I was cautious. This is not a good hour for making mistakes.

Bare toes dig into wet shingles, judging the slant and adjusting. I walk, not gingerly, but yet with some respect, to the places that I must clear. Stay a foot farther from the edge than needed, maintain awareness of power lines and gusts. As if orchestrated, the blood-warm rain falls harder as I kneel at the first corner. It could happen in no other way, and I accept that.

A huge handful of leaves gets tossed to the ground; trapped water rushes to be free. All I need do now is strain out with my fingers the passing debris, that which doesn't gush down the thin metal pipe faster than I can grab. Hydrostatic pressure is my ally now, and the sound of it working is so satisfying. It's good to turn all of that loose.

The rain puts sheets of water under my feet as I move to the corner at the back, and repeat the performance there. This corner is a bit higher, with more that's jagged down below, and I'm reminded that I'm frightened of falling. I stay steady in my purpose, on balance, on track.

Over the crest of the roof then, to the other side, as that's the one likely to be worst. Thunder booms from somewhere as I move toward the top, and I make it a point to stand as tall as I can. Lightning will come get you if it wants you, even if you stoop to hide. It's no reason not to stand tall.

By the time I finish and return across the peak, I may as well have been out swimming, from the state my clothes are in. I think about three-masted decks as I place my feet - I believe the old place will come through this one shipshape. I guard against building treacherous speed as I move back down towards my ladder - no point in wrecking the ending just to finish quicker.

In a few more moments, I'm again earthbound, and leaning the ladder against a dry wall of the shed. I wave my arm to dry it before retrieving my glasses and smokes, and step over my socks as I cross the threshold.

On my second step into the kitchen, I slip and catch myself, on the floor that she bemoans never waxing. Carrying several ounces of ambient rainwater on your person is a hazard, and a mess, I come to realize. I place my glasses and smokes atop the fridge, and backtrack two careful steps. This puts me at the stairwell that can help solve my problem, provided I don't mind stripping down.

Two sodden plops follow, as I toss all that rainwater to the concrete floor of my basement, mere feet from its rainwater drain. My clothes will be fine there for now, and what water remains on me is negligible, just enough to soak my too-short hair. I can feel myself drying, from every direction.

Okay, then. Well. It's a good day so far, what's my next move? Might as well go back to what I was doing...

I step to the fridge, open it, snag a softball-sized apple as my breakfast. Thumb on stem, fingertip opposite, it has a comfortable heft in my hand. One crisp bite later, I'm struck by inspiration.

The apple dangles loosely at the end of my arm as I move through the house, on the balls of my still-damp feet for silence and stability. Unnoticed past the blaring morning television in his playroom, quietly back through the bedroom door.

I'll bring her the breakfast that Adam once had, if old-fashioned stories be true.

Come look at this day that I've found!