Our personal light show

We sit on the veranda on the swinging bench. You always made me do all the swinging, while you sat Indian style, head on my shoulders. May flowers are running late, as April showers seem to be taking over June.
We watch the rain fall, attacking the newly budded leaves on the poplar trees which surround your lawn. The sound of the rain pelting the tin gutter overhead is like our own private soundtrack. The scent of wet asphalt and barbeques from neighboring cul-de-sacs is overpowering.
The flashes of lightning erupt sporadically. The yard explodes with light, then in instant returns to its dimming evening state. With each crash of thunder you bury your manicured fingernails into my forearm as I pretend it doesn’t hurt.
The sticky heat mixed with the momentum of the swing seems to suck the life out of us. I contemplate retiring to the basement, but I hate to leave this light show, I hate to disturb you.
I decide to continue swinging the night away, as the rain plays our song.