Noi woke to the sound of downpour. Raindrops landed heavily on the banana leaves outside the window. She shivered and pulled her cotton blanket higher over her shoulders. School would be closed with such heavy rain falling.

Ting’s side of the bed was empty. Noi got up quickly and opened the shutters just in time to see her sloshing to the bus even though the rain fell like a great gray waterfall. Ting held a banana leaf over her head with one hand and carried her lunch box in the other. Noi watched until she disappeared.

Kun Ya came up quietly behind Noi. She rested her hands on Noi’s shoulders. “It’s not good to go out in the rain. She’s too young to do that.”

“You’re up so early, Kun Ya.” Noi turned and put her arms around Kun Ya’s neck. Under her forearms, she felt Kun Ya’s thin shoulder blades, like wings, beneath her sleeping dress. “I wish Ting didn’t have to go to the factory.”

“I know, little daughter.”

“Please do something for her, Kun Ya.”

“At one time I would have had that power, Noi. Things are changing.” She put a cool hand against Noi’s cheek.

Noi could hear Kun Ya’s heart beating through the thin fabric — a sound like a faraway drumbeat.

Kun Ya’s chest lifted as she said, “Since you can’t go to school, let’s paint together inside near the big window.”

Just then, the sun broke through the clouds, shining brilliantly through the cascade of rain.

After breakfast, Noi put on her plastic raincoat and went down the ladder, the rain thudding on her head and back as she descended. At ground level, the water already rose ankle deep. Underneath the house, she gathered an armful of umbrellas and pulled herself up, rung by rung, with her free arm.

She went back down to collect the basket of paints and brushes.

Noi spread the mat and laid out the umbrellas. Kun Ya sat down and slowly took an umbrella into her hand. “We must be still for a moment, Noi, and listen to the umbrella. Look at its color and the way the light touches it. Know the story it wants you to tell before you begin.”

Kun Ya started to paint a quiet scene of lily pads. Then she turned and placed the umbrella in Noi’s hands. “Here, finish it for me, little daughter. The damp air makes me sleepy.”

Noi could see that Kun Ya had meant to continue the lily pads around the edge of the umbrella, making them grow smaller and smaller. She had watched her create this design before. But completing this painting was a far larger task than painting the butterfly.

“You know how, Noi. It’s time for you to go further,” Kun Ya said softly.

The thunderous beating on the tin roof almost hid her words.

After Noi had finished the lily pads, her body full of the roundness of them, she turned to show her work to Kun Ya. But Kun Ya had lain down on her side and now slept. Noi crawled inside of the mosquito net. She pressed her face close to Kun Ya’s hair, which smelled of fresh lemongrass, and sang “Yellow Bird” very softly.

From the kitchen, Noi heard the sound of one of Ting’s radios. The singer sang of lost love. Tiny bells played like drops of water falling.