I’ve always enjoyed the rain. It’s destructive, yet cleansing. It’s organized and chaotic. It’s forceful, yet gentle. I’ve always felt a connection to it.
When I was younger, my mom would sometimes take me and my younger brother outside to stand in heavy down pours. I’ve never asked her why she was so into it, but whatever possessed her to go out there was passed on to me. I love it.
The rain never scared me. It was always inviting, almost loving to me. It sang me to sleep some nights. It soothed me during stressful times. It brought me gifts. It also brought me her.
I met her six years ago. The rains were torrential that year. Floods and weather warnings were aplenty that year. Most thought me weird, but when the rains were at their strongest, I was outside, cheering them on. My connection to them was familial. I ran alongside them as they destroyed the world. I laughed and played with them as they washed away the debris and waste of children. But she was the opposite. She didn’t run and play. Instead, she sat in the puddles they left behind, swirling her fingers in the water. She didn’t seem to play with the storms, rather she babysat them. She sat at the edge of their territory and watched them tire themselves out.
I had never met anyone that enjoyed “bad weather” as much as I did. She looked right at home amongst the waters. Or rather, the rain was right at home with her.
To be continued.