There it is. The rain.
There is something magical about the rain. Whenever it falls, you cannot help but for a moment be transported out of the present, to transcend time for what it is and escape into the mutable recesses of human memory. The rain, as it falls, seems to soak up my soul, seems to infiltrate my skin until I am just another droplet in a storm. I can feel all at once every other time that it has rained, can feel memories overwhelm me. I remember my sixth birthday party by the ocean, looking out over to the horizon. My father barbecued, and we warily watched the ominous clouds roll in over the headland. When the heavens opened up on us, like ancient Gods declaring war, we shrieked with laughter and ran for the cover of the cars, the sausages & steaks sizzlingly dismally on a water-soaked barbecue. I remember being completely soaked, drenched in every nook and cranny, like the rain was playing a game with itself, aiming to explore and map the human body. I can also remember the time just last month, that I sat naked in the backyard, on the bench that no one in our family has ever sat on. I let the sky drift down onto my bare breasts and stomach, let the water cleanse me, a baptism of sorts, a baptism into understanding and gentleness. I walked with softer steps after that day. I’d been resurrected by the autumn storm.
I’ve been lonely these past months, broken, questioning. I’ve been trying to remember what beauty is, lately. I can no longer seem to recall just what made my heart beat slower, with contentment. I can’t remember the list that I made to remind myself, so I will start another.
The rain is something beautiful.