the sound of rain on the roof

The attic groans when I climb the ladder – same as it did when Diana used to nag me about checking for leaks. That was years ago. I'm too old to be fixing roofs. Nowadays, it's something else I care about. The climb. The switch. The sound.

It begins with a hum. Then a soft hiss, like someone exhaling beside my ear. After a few seconds, the sound fills the attic – gentle rain tapping above me, slow at first, then steadier. Like it used to sound on our old roof in upstate New York. Before we moved south for her health. Before everything became quiet.

She loved rain. Said it made her feel less lonely, like the sky remembered to cry for her. I used to tease her for it, but I miss it now, too. I miss the blankets and the tea and the way she'd close her eyes, smile faintly, and say, "Just listen."

So I built the machine.

Not much to it – a few rows of PVC line the roof, all connected to a small pump system and a 55-gallon drum I refill every morning with water from the pond lake nearby. It took a lot of trial and error to find the right drill size for the holes in the pipes, but it's nearly perfect – not like the rain that's too sharp and piercing and sounds like bullets hitting the windshield, or the fat kind of rain that knocks leaves from their branches.

When the machine is switched on and the water falls, it's gentle, almost mist-like – the kind of rain that would be worn with a yellow raincoat and red boots. The kind she liked.

I turn it on every night, except the nights it rains, but of course, it doesn't quite feel the same. Real rain is too unpredictable. Sometimes, it'll come in sideways. Or in gusts. Sometimes, it'll last too long or barely long enough to water the garden Diana started years ago. The machine listens, though. Some people find church – I found this.

Every Friday evening, my nephew will stop by to bring me some groceries. He always pauses by the base of the attic ladder.

"Goin' up again tonight?" I shrug. His mouth tightens. He never says what he's thinking, but I know. Still?

I offer him tea, but he says he's got to go. Always has some place to be. When he leaves, I listen to his car back out of the driveway before creaking up the rungs. I flip on the machine, lie on my back, and stare up at the beams above me. The attic opens like the hollow of a ribcage, wooden rafters crisscrossing above in a crooked grid. Thin nails poke through at odd angles, rusted to a dull brown.

People think I'm grieving. Maybe I was. Maybe I still am.

People think I should move on, but doesn't that contradict what true love is? With her, I'm calm, and right now, I've never been more at peace.

People think I'm holding on to something that's gone. But I'm not. I'm holding on to something that's stayed, and I'd rather be alone with it than lost without it.