rainMarch 22, 2007
Today it rained. It rained in sudden cascades that distracted everyone under its umbrella to the point that classes rushed to window and children cheered, even though it meant no recess. Even teachers rushed outside. It beat down hard and fast, breaking away blocks of dirt that had caked in the corners of curbs and sidewalks, layered thick from months before. It towered against the city, flooding at least one house that I know of, and bringing with it the force of washing.
Attentions where shattered, brains were battered, people broke their holds on tears. It was a flood within a flood, a great tidal push. And it felt good. Though I frantically called my roommate to have him close the windows, I knew it didn’t matter. If the pure rain wanted inside, let it. Let it wash things, make things clean.
I believe in rain. I believe in the power of rushing water over concrete and stone. Over skin. I believe that the spring rains are the best because they are cold, revitalizing, and the green reaches out from deep within the trunks of trees, from deep within the soil itself, grabbing every drop that it can muster to hold. All the green comes out to play in a crisp spring rain. The air turns to an wrapping shawl so barely perceived it only tickles the windshields and the tips of fingers as they touch things. Everything, even the dirty exhaust from the gas-burning autos, smells cleaner, brighter, better.
So, as the first gusts of water crashed down over the school, silence befell us, and we broke our molds to go view the dark curtains of hydration that were. And when I stepped outside, though I was not wet, I felt ready for the growing season. I felt clear.