I set in the window and watched as the rain fell to the ground. It had started raining just a few minutes earlier, and the longer I sat there the harder it rained. As each drop struck the ground, it formed an umbrella with more drops spreading out across the ground. I watched as puddles began to form, and rivers began to flow away from each puddles forming into larger rivers before reaching the street.

It wasn’t long, the curbs along the street began to flow like rushing rivers, and the tires from the parked cars acted like boulders in the rivers trying to block the rushing water.

To a small boy of six, it seemed as if the rain would never stop, and it appeared to be raining harder by the minute.

I was startled when the babysitter touched my shoulder, “Do you enjoy watching the rain David?”

I stared up into the babysitter’s eyes, “Do you know why it rains?” I asked her. I often wondered why it rained. At my age, I did not know and was curious about where the rain came from. I remember she smiled at me and looked out the window and stared at the rain and watched it for several seconds.

“The rain comes from the Angels tears, they’re crying because a child has died.” She still had her hand on my shoulder, squeezed it slightly, and smiled. Then she turned and walked away.

I set there watching the rainfall and wondering about her statement. I thought about the number of times that I had cried and how few tears I actually shed. I thought about how many angels it must take to shed that many tears for this much rain. It would take many Angels for this much rain.

Eventually the rain began to slow and then stopped, and I sat in the window watching the river in the street fade away to nothing. Then she said it was bedtime.

Later that night I awoke to the sound of rain on the roof. From my bed, I could see out a window and I lay there watching the rain. I wondered if another child had died. I could see the moon and watch the rain as it fell from the sky. Eventually the rain stopped, and I drifted off to sleep.

Two days later, I was sitting at the breakfast table, and I heard my father start reading a story to my mother from the newspaper. It was an extremely disturbing story about a small child placed into an oven by a babysitter while the parents had gone out for the evening. It turns out that the incident happened the night that it rained.

My mind raced forward wondering if the babysitter had known something about this or if she were a witch. The whole thing scared the pee waddling out of me.

A few months later, my parents decided to go out with friends and told my brothers and me that they were going to have the same babysitter sit with us. As soon as I heard the same wicked witch would set us, I raced into my bedroom and grabbed my baseball bat and then into the living room where my mother was standing.

I started screaming at the top of my lungs, “No no, you cannot have that witch take care of us.” The more my mother asks why the louder I got. I begin to bang the bat on the floor, screaming that much louder. “No the witch cannot take care of us.”

My mother finally gave in and found another babysitter for that night. Our oldest brother was four years older than I was and after that, we started taking care of ourselves. My parents never were able to get me to explain why I felt the way I did.

To this day, I have been unable to convince myself that girl was not involved in some way with what went down that night. She just seemed to understand what was happening. I could be wrong and hope that I am. Every time it rains, I think that somewhere in the world something horrible is happening to a child.

I ask myself, how many angels does it take to make that many raindrops?