Phillip Rainwater watched the gushing stream heading toward the sewer a few houses away. He put one of his carefully crafted cardboard boats in the water and announced, “Sail, mighty warship.” For Phillip, with his native American heritage, boats of every kind fascinated him, along with rain, his namesake.

He lost the first down the concrete drain opening, but after that, he ran fast enough to retrieve many of his crafts. He stopped with one left from the jaws of the hungry sewer.

“Look at you, Phillip, your hair is dripping, and your clothes are soaking wet. Stay there till I get a towel,” his mother scolded. She returned, stripped her six-year-old and wrapped him in the bath towel and hurried him in the door. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No, Mom. It’s summer. I love the rain. A great day to float my boats … I lost all but my little square, airplane-glue-covered cardboard boat with a pointed end over the giant waterfall into the black shark-infested waves below.”

His mother laughed. “What an imagination and sense of humor you have, son. Now, on with dry clothes.”

“Okay. What’s for dinner?”

“Steak, snap beans, corn, and sugar cookies for dessert. With food rationing over, 1946 will be a bountiful year for the Rainwaters.”

“Waa-hoo,” he shouted—arms in air.

#

Phillip graduated college in 1963, married Betty he’d dated for two years, a profession in microbiology, and had eight children, five boys and three girls. His parents died in the mid-90s. Each funeral was in the rain. He didn’t mind his black overcoat getting wet. Besides family, the rain was his friend and comfort, as always.

Phillip retired in 2005, and he and Betty moved to a small farm. They raised chickens, goats, and a few larger animals. Retirement funds sustained them. Then Phillip’s arthritis took a serious turn.

By 2020, he was mostly residing in a living-room hospital bed so he could be with everyone. He thanked God for having such a happy life and loving family.

The grim news came in late 2021 when everyone was isolating from Covid. Betty delayed seeing her doctor, even with troublesome breast lumps. She didn’t want to know. Besides, she had Phillip to attend to. When she finally went, the diagnosis was “fully metastasized into the brain and vital organs.”

Three agonizing months later, she was dead. One of their daughters summoned the ambulance and law, and she went with the body to the funeral home in the rain, while Phillip stayed with his broken heart. He should’ve died first.

His daughter said, “I’ll be back soon, Daddy. You okay for a while?”

“Yup.”

With everyone gone, Phillip eased out of his bed and, with two platform canes, hobbled outside in his pajamas, which immediately got soaked from welcomed rain—washed away his tears—refreshing. It was his friend. He eased to the giant galvanized metal horse-watering tub filled with gutter runoff, and climbed into the overflowing water. He spread his arms and legs out on the edges, suspended, floating, and looked toward the heavens, the light rain hitting him in the face. He removed a small object from his shirt pocket.

“Thank you, God, for my life, Betty and my family, and for the rain. I’ve been truly blessed, but I can’t live in the world like this. I’m joining my love.”

With those last words, Phillip relaxed his arms and legs, let out his breath, and sank below the surface of the rainwater. On top of the water floated a little square, airplane-glue-covered cardboard boat with a pointed end.