The best days are the days when you lay in bed, listening, waiting. Someone yells at a child in the village, birds fly overhead, a car backfires on the highway, loud music from somewhere. Then you hear it, the first thunder, it rumbled across the sky sounding like a hungry old man’s stomach. Then you hear the wind, whistling through the tropical trees, mangoes fell out of the trees, a small hard object bounces off the window paine. Someone running outside, trying to get home before the downpour. And then it happens, the faint sound of a drizzle hitting the galvanize roof, thunder roars, the wind picks up. Darkness covers the village as the gray skies rolls in. The rain is heavy now, pounding off the galvanize roof. Oh that sweet melody, soothing, comforting. You want to stay away to hear it, lose yourself in the rhythm. But your eye lids becomes heavy, and you slowly drift off, the sound of the rain hitting the roof fades and you fall into a dream were you are walking in the warm tropical downpour.