Raindrops Have Shadows Too

They really do. I saw them on the window beside me in the waiting room before the interview. I never knew such small, short-lived things could have shadows. They're just dots of moisture, particles sticking to glass. Who would think they had shadows?

I shook the umbrella dry under the porch and went inside to tell my dad I got the job. He was fixing the curtain rod in the living room when I told him the good news. He didn't say anything at first; sometimes I think he's deaf, or too preoccupied.

"That's good," he finally said while stepping down from the ladder, "but don't get too excited."

"It's one of those first time things, Dad."

"I know, I know," He wiped his glasses clean on his shirt. "It's just that things are different nowadays. The economy's not the same as when I was your age, all young and energetic.

"Pretty soon you'll feel the brunt of the work. Your boss will hint to you how insecure your job is. Max five years, I read in the Australian. Most don't even go over two."

I was really lucky to get it. With both my parents retired and myself old enough to leave home, any work with money was good. We're going to support you too, they said. Support, that is, leaving a space at the dinner table free. And even then the portions were scant.

The sky is full of raindrops when it rains. Before the big shower starts there's always a rumbling, a low-key grumble from the clouds; I take it as a warning to head for shelter. And under the shade I watch the raindrops spilling down from the sky and shatter into other transient drops. Dad hates the rain and always stays in when it pours.

I want to tell him what he says doesn't matter. I want to escape from his new-economy reality for a moment and soak in the victory. Getting the job was like winning it. Don't need him to tell me the bad news. Raindrops have shadows but you don't see them all the time. Usually you want to forget they have any.

Wonder when the rainbow's going to show.