It started drizzling and for a seven-year old girl, it was like the ice cream man’s bell ringing. She started for the door but grandmother stopped her. “Ok,” said grandmother, “but only for a little while.” Mother, always the cool woman she was, simply smiled. Grandfather stared straight ahead but she knew him too well. He was her favorite of all.
The door flew open and freedom smelled of grass and wet earth. Children’s laughter, and teeth chattering, blended melodiously with the spatter of raindrops on rooftops nearby. And then it poured. It poured heavily. The voices grew louder. The spatter turned to splatter and there were splashes everywhere. The children jumped from one puddle to another joyfully, delighted in what the heavens have brought them. “’Tis not going to rain this hard tomorrow so let us steal as much time away from home as we can!”
Memories of a decade gone by, of thousands of isles away, and of innocence lost. Today, when it rains, it simply pours. I sit by the window, take a careful sip from my cup, and stare out, a bit annoyingly. Sometimes I catch myself hoping for children to be out there like we used to but I seldom find any. I muse at the thought of starting for the door like I used to and Grandmother would stop me like she used to, and jump in the rain and linger there as if it were my last.
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