“How many drops of rain fall on the Earth each day?” you wondered once, out loud, while sitting against the willow tree in your garden on a warm clear spring day.

I heard you and I wanted to let you know. But I hadn’t counted in a while and wanted to get it right.

I had other things to do that day. A rather troublesome volcano on my backside needed managing. I put you on my list of things to do.

You had long since turned to soil by the time I reached inbox zero. But I hadn’t forgotten. I smelled you in the petrichor. And I counted, and whispered, “Twenty-seven quintillion and three.”