take me out into the rain for a drive

This was something my mum used to ask my dad to do; back when it was just them and possibilities. She loves the sound of rain on thin metal and loved my dad to drive her around the town with the rain hammering down outside the dry interior of the car. He was her chauffeur in bliss.

I have their car just now, and I too love to do this. I love the sound of rain and how it makes me feel. How it can shoosh like a mother soothing her child. Or hiss against the glass, a hosepipe soaking in summertime. Or come suddenly helter skelter from the freezing heavens in a barrage of ice pellets, an arhythmical cacophony of sky. Acupuncture right and deep where these thousand million points of pressured soundwaves unblock my pleasure.
In the old house there was a conservatory and anytime there was rain I'd head to the sofa there and watch it wash across the glass roof. A front row spectacle. Watching the way the garden drank. It put me at such ease, there in my warm womb place listening to the rhythm of waves, of water transcendent, showering my mood like a blessing.
So I went out into the rain for a drive. A cleansing time of no thought. And when the light had its wash it sparkled. I got out at Port Glasgow and walked the glimmering shoreline. I breathed the cool air that cleans, the river coming in wavelets of brilliant shine to the sandy shore.
Then, on the chill chill cheroo of the North wind, the first scouting drops of further rain. Freezing wee pin pricks of morse code I could easily translate. Go back to the car, it said, time to go out into the rain for a drive.