The Rain

I am.

longing for the rain.

I miss the cryptic puddles. Steaming bitumen and raindrops on my face. The reward of turning your head to the rain.

Violent sheets mirror my mood when I prod the silhouette of my umbrella against the wind. Trekking in a thunderstorm is a fight of the fist between nature and me. I am always losing. A personified struggle against God whom I know will always have the last say. It doesn't hurt to try to make Him sense my desperation in all my times of need. Doesn't hurt to make him understand my anger and frustration. Except that He already understood long before I did.

The gentle platter may greet my runners, sprouting from the toes, forming an elegant arch of gold and silver before disappearing into the next puddle. Gone, and just like *that*. Recall the dread of the squishy toes and relief of footprints on dry concrete. The desire for something warm. The half-memory of the last time a car splashed you with muddy rain water. The shiver of delight at the thought of a warm toasty bed on a rainy morning.

The silver dabble. A sprinkling of spots. Not nearly enough to convince you to stop and retrieve the trusty brolly, but more than enough to quicken those half-hearted steps. I remember that wash of relief when you are home before the sky began to pour. That sheer joy of escaping the peak of the storm. Realize that you are safe after all.

Smell the sweet tinge of air after the rain. The loud audible tones of the grass and drainage. The novel mix of sun and water assaulting your nostrils. You remember the clearing of grey, the tempting puddles of mud and the heavy damp that remains.

I long.

For the rain.