Small kid time

This I remember about Hilo.
There is always rain.
Shari, Ashley and I hunch in front of my house in bathing suits and shorts, plastic buckets stacked at our feet. We are chanting, “Stop the rain, stop the rain, stop the rain.” We feel like Indians invoking an ancient ritual.
It rains in sheets, a low, steady roar and you can smell it on the asphalt.
The weeds in my yard thrive on the constant showers. The rain flushes out the poison my dad had sprayed the day before and the weeds grow taller, stronger, more resiliant.
Eventually, the rain slows to a drizzle.
The three of us stand up, hopeful and excited.
My dad is settled on the couch, watching TV, chowing down on cold scrambled eggs, rice and bacon.
“It stopped raining,” I tell him.
“It’s going to start again,” he replies without looking up.
“Yeah but...”
“We can go another day,” he says.
“But we’re going to get wet anyway --”
“No.” He stops eating to fix his gaze on me. The meaning is unmistakable.
I stomp out of the room but he calls me back, his voice sharp.
“What?” I snap.
“Watch yourself,” he says, gaze still unshakable.
I swallow my rage and leave quietly this time.
Ashley and Shari are waiting by the screen door with expectant faces.
“He said no,” I say.
“How come?”
I shrug.
“Is he mad?”
Again, I shrug.
“Your dad is a grouch,” Shari says.
“No shit. Will your parents take us?”
Ashley snorts. “No way. They won’t want to get off their lazy asses.”
“I don’t want to talk to my dad anyway,” Shari adds. “He’s getting on my nerves.”
We wander back to our buckets and sit there in sulky silence, watching the rain drip from the roof.

This is from a series of short pieces I wrote about Hilo rain