Memories of Rainy Days

yellow

I woke up this morning with Madonna’s ‘Rain’ playing in my head.

 

It’s 32 degrees in Toronto today. With the humidity in the air, it feels more like 38 degrees. Although I don’t want to complain about the long-awaited summer, at this point, I think it’s fair to say that we need a break from the heat. The west coast especially needs some rain after the long draught. I must issue a disclaimer here to say that I am a person who thoroughly enjoys rainy weather. I am inspired by rainy weather as some of my fondest memories are of events that occurred on overcast days. Here are a few of those rainy childhood memories. One of these was written several months ago for a writing class; I wrote the other two earlier today:

 

I am alive in October, ready to record the rise in the wind. It’s because of the leaves and their candy colours, inviting me into the damp days of my childhood, walking under a giant umbrella with my mom, beautiful and elegant in her high-heeled boots and a wool coat. Even amidst the grey wet streets, the leaves seem to sparkle out at me, making me feel cozy inside my dirty pink puffy jacket. The wind and rain of October bring with them a sense of comfort, the comfort of my mom’s warm hand inside her sleek leather glove, holding mine, hidden in a knitted wool mitten. For once, we don’t rush to get me to school in the early morning. Instead, we stroll along the street and we smile. October is the warmest month in my calendar.

My grandmother and I run down the neighbourhood street, holding hands and giggling, enjoying the cooling rainy shower after a stifling hot day. I am spending the lazy summer days on the balcony of her second-storey apartment, seated in a soft-backed chair with my feet resting on a stool before me, eating peaches so ripe that the sweet nectar runs down my chin, the bright yellow juice stains spreading across the bodice of my new white dress. On the balcony’s ledge, even Babushka’s lavender bell flowers appear sleepy in spite of their effort to stay bright and cheerful. She waters them every morning and evening, caressing them tenderly with her soft, graceful hands that have so much love to give. In the evening, the breeze picks up suddenly while Babushka and I are out for a walk in the neighbourhood, stopping to admire the fragrant, bright flowers that adorn the front yards of street-level apartments of the high-rise apartment buildings. She tells me the air smells like rain. Moments later, a tiny drop lands on the tip of my nose, as if in confirmation and mischievous warning of the inevitable. And then we run, skipping over puddles on our way to the nearest overhang in front of an entrance to an apartment building. The sandals on our feet are soggy, our toes quickly starting to slip. We hold hands to support each other, and through the rolling laughter, I forget that I am running with a woman who is some 50 years older than me. I am running with a pretty fairy, as light as feather, pulling me gently by the hand. I imagine we are floating through the air, our feet pedalling above the cooling asphalt. Breathlessly, she laughs and tells me how much she loves rainy weather. I smile back at her mischievous eyes and we pause for a moment before starting to run again, our laughter echoing through the street.

The school bell rings and I sigh in relief, picking up my backpack and umbrella, quietly slipping out of the classroom and through the school’s front gate, crowded with other children awaiting their rides. I look forward to walking home alone through a park of towering Eucalyptus trees. It’s my usual daily route to walk with several friends on our way to and from school. In the rain, however, I know I will be alone with the sound of wet drops tapping on my umbrella and my rubber boots splashing in puddles. I politely decline my friend’s father’s offer for me to join my friend and her brother in the backseat of the car for a lift home, and without stopping to consider the puzzled expressions on their faces, I turn away to escape into my own experience. I crave solitary soggy walks, followed by changing into a cozy sweater at home, then sitting down by the window with a book and a mug of steaming tea.

How do you feel about rain? Does it inspire you? Does it bring out feelings of melancholy? Does it make you want to put on yellow rubber boots and go dancing through puddles? Leave a comment to share your story with me!

 

Thank you for sharing this edition with other rain-lovers. 

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