It Rained the Day They Buired My Father

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		It Rained the Day They Buried My Father by Alice Walker

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*Read other stories:* What the Chicken Says Gimme Shelter The Woman under the Orange Umbrella The Golden Puppy Denise Drinks Again The Father-in-law DIY Rescue Making My Mark			My husband and I huddled together against the damp air underneath the tent at my father's grave. I prayed the thunder and lightning that had shaken the service at Dad's Lutheran Church had stopped for good. Later, at our house, the rain pelted against the window of the living room where Dad's remaining friends and our small family stood and filled our mouths with food. Eating was a good way to avoid the difficulty of finding the right words to say. After everyone left, the rain dwindled to a drizzle. Against my husband's protests, I went out on the porch and sat under the shelter of the umbrella at our round glass table and sipped a cup of tea. I watched as the drizzle collected and ran as thin droplets from the umbrella valance. Dad had been a farmer his whole life. Where we live, rain is considered a blessing. "Praise God," he would say when it rained. I knew his garden, now unattended, was getting good nourishment from all the rain. He would have liked it that way.


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