Early morning rain on the rusted tin roof. It begins as ping after ping then it accelerates, like a dozen children knocking, looking for me. It’s only moments before it’s a finale applause, though the show has just started. The storm is on top of me but I’m hiding in the coop. This is where I prefer to be when it rains. The acoustics are perfect for thoughts to ring out. My wrist feels weak holding my coffee mug. All the trappings of precipitation, felt in my joints. Yet it doesn’t deter my love for it.
The hens hush when it rains. I think they’re listening, just like me. There’s one leaky spot in the roof nearby so it slowly puddles there. I’ve scaled the shed and repaired the tin but the drip remains. A year ago the north wind bent several panels backwards. Folded them right in half like sandwich bread. I guess I’ll need to pull it back and patch below. There’s still some sort of hole there. Things leak when they have holes. I’ve hemorrhaged a lot the past few years, too. Thought I’d lose all my life blood at one point.
Many times I’ve dubbed this shed the crying coop. I remember building the chicken house alongside my eldest daughter’s flight from home. I thought it ironic how I was assembling a nest while my first baby bird was positioning to take flight. I cried a lot during that time. I’d sneak outside, scoop up a chicken, and bawl. I realize that promotes me to crazy-chicken-lady status, but it is what it is. The shed is where I’ve shed the most tears, so I suppose it’s not too far-fetched to camp out in it when the sky is crying, too. Maybe I’m normal after all.