Gramma jerks the wheel often. Tiny jerks. Little overcorrections that leave her and I in the Jeep twitching, wiggling side to side in the lane.
Rain flicks the car incessantly. A little brother poking you until the sensation softens and that small area on your arm turns numb. My ears become numb to the flicks and whips of the drops, and the sounds blur together into... Now I'm listening too closely.
The outpour collects on leaves above. Plopping clacking marbles down down on us. Smatterings of marble sky kisses.
Droplets blur together into rivulets into rivers. I hear their rivers, sometimes.
The sound and sight and sensation of the rain. The aura of rain. It seeps into our minds, our own personal fog. My Gramma's movements are softened as the rain flows through her arms, over her bones, weighing her hands.
The overcorrections are fluid, now a subtle weaving. Puddles on the road assist in tugging the Jeep to one side or another. Millions of tiny hydrogen bond hands pluck at rubber tires. Thank you, little puddles. Do you hear your rivers, too, sometimes?