The rains sounds like static on the radio, or butter simmering in a shallow pan before we add our pork, teriyaki-dipped, into the heated fat. My children, too, have that look of golden brown, of rice mixed with shoyu, but they drown out the rain's sound with their own. Picking up the phone, I place my call to the pharmacist. Seen from memory as we talk - white coat, white hair, the face of grandfather, calm as the rain sounds. Yes, the approval is in, the prescription filled. I give my thanks. The rain pauses, The tv volume gets louder. My children try to make themselves heard. Tomorrow, it will rain in the morning, but die off in the afternoon. Tomorrow morning my daughter starts her new medicine, and in the afternoon we'll discover what's to become of her. The only thing for it, they say. Such a difference - you'll see. You must trust your doctors. I grab keys for a trip to the store. It's raining again. My face is wet, as wet as the concrete and asphalt. I hear how the rain must sound to itself in the absence of children.