The rain gutter ran along the edge of the roof like a trough for the sky. Galvanized tin. Held up by brackets every three feet. The rain gutter caught the water before it hit you on the head. The rain gutter was the middleman between the cloud and the street.

When the rain gutter clogged the water poured over the side like a curtain. You could see where the gutter was clogged by where the waterfall was. Leaves. Pigeon nests. A tennis ball from 1974. The super went up on the roof with a wire hanger and cleared the gutter and the waterfall stopped and the sidewalk dried. The wire hanger was the plumber of the gutter.

The sound of rain in the gutter was the sound of the building breathing. A light rain was a whisper. A thunderstorm was a shout. I fell asleep to the sound of rain in the gutter on East Seventh Street and the gutter was my white noise machine before white noise machines existed. The gutter cost nothing. The white noise machine costs forty dollars.

The rain gutter drained into the downspout and the downspout drained into the street and the street drained into the sewer and the sewer drained into the river. The rain gutter was the first link in a chain that started on the roof and ended in the ocean. One drop of rain on one roof on one block on one island ended up in the Atlantic. The rain gutter was the beginning of the journey.

They make rain gutters out of vinyl now. White. Plastic. They do not rust. They do not dent. They do not make a sound when the rain hits them. The tin gutter was a drum. The vinyl gutter is a sponge. I miss the drum. I miss the sound of the building breathing in the rain.

See also: Roof Tar, Rain Barrel