There’s something about rain. A light drizzle. A thundering downpour. Even if you hate it, there’s something powerful in the sound of heavy droplets of liquid pounding against your roof, your car. Isn’t it always a shock when you feel the first cool drop on your skin? Most of the time it makes you look to the sky in awe, even if you don’t realize you do it.
As children we ran toward the rain, and as adults we run away from it. Why?
I remember the last time I exuberantly rushed into a storm. I was 14. My friend and I sat inside, playing Nintendo, when the windows were suddenly running with liquid, and we had a similar conversation as the theme of this post—much less in depth.
So, with my mother screaming at us from inside, we hurled ourselves through the harsh thick drops, getting more and more drenched and loving it. We made sure to stomp in the puddles, slide down the wet hill of our front yard, and put our faces to the sky.
When I came in, shivering and soaked, my mother scowling and ready with towels, something in me realized it would be the last time I ever did that again. I grew up a little in the middle of a storm, and said goodbye to childhood things.
Next time it storms, I think I’ll go outside.
