It was the sound of summer rain that woke me this morning. And for an instant I was a boy again listening to the rain through a bedroom window slightly raised. My brother, younger, in the twin beside me breathed quiet as death. Our parents down a short hall murmured the things permissible only when its dark and later. And I lay awake selfish, as usual, dreaming of how I the first-born hero would always save the people in that red-bricked rancher. But time tumbles and we grow flesh. I cannot even save myself. The only heroics, then like now, is being still enough to know the sound of summer rain.