After the Rain
Something about rain has always fascinated me. As I played
among the wildflowers as a child under the rays of the yellow sun, I remember
thinking that only one thing was missing to make it perfect day. Rain. A sudden
stream not too heavy, neither too light. Sometimes to quizzical glances of
bystanders I would even remove my shoes. With my feet now clad in pristine
white socks, I would wade in the small puddles like a baby duck. Unlike the
other mothers who would immediately scurry their children inside, my mother
understood. She would be outside with me, playing among the puddles, our mouths
open wide tasting the falling droplets.
Today, underneath the growling thunders rumble, it falls heavily,
bathing the sprawling metropolis below. Rushing past me are the disgruntled
faces of my fellow citizens. I catch a few bitter words of complaint that the
rain dared to interfere with their day. I thank the rain for the interruption,
it would have been another drudging, depressing day. Why rainy days are
associated with melancholy has always been lost on me.
Water washes away the grime of regret. It washes away the
blood of deep cuts, the blows inflicted by a harsh word. Tears bottle the
sadness of our hearts, allowing them to drip from our soul’s windows until they
evaporate into thin air. Unable to weigh us down no longer.
So the rain washes our collective misery, wiping the slate
clean of past longings, mistakes and worries. ‘I’ll give you that second chance
you so desperately need.’ it says gently. Stand outside for just a few moments.
The rushing drops cause discomfort for only a few seconds, as it is a new
sensation to the body. But, don’t give up. Close your eyes, breathe deeply,
block out the world’s distractions. The shower of water is now upon you, let
the inner turmoil osmosis out of your system.
This mental rinse reminds me of the important engagement I
have scheduled for the day. The thick wool socks wiggle in my boots as I bring
up my scarf to cover my chilled neck. The flits of warmth send a pleasant
shiver down my entire body. Strange, how you can feel warmer inside when the
temperature drops outside.
I walk on the cracked concrete sidewalks, right parallel to
the hodgepodge of shops where I glance at their pretty wares from underneath my
umbrella. My stride is slow; I am in no hurry, for my appointment won’t mind
waiting. The sounds of the thin heels of my ankle boots are delicate high-hats
in contrast to the loud crashes of the agitated eager to get away.
The weather has caused long traffic lines, loud honking and
the occasional passenger rant can be heard, mixing in with police sirens
announcing the drivers to clear their way. Up ahead, I see a few parked cars
hovered around a local coffee shop. There’s nothing like sipping a hot beverage
on a rainy day. It’s a calm happiness that can’t be bought. Metaphorically
speaking of course. I buy a large cup of
piping hot chai tea and a few sweet confections for about $8.95. My date is
going to be so happy that I remembered. It’s always been a secret tradition we
shared.
I can’t resist taking a nibble of a dainty lemon macaroon. I
remind myself that I need to continue walking if I want to have enough time.
Where I’m going has visiting hours, although it is a strange place to impose
that sort of thing.
Splashing in the shallow puddles puts a smile on my face,
the tiny rivers sloshing upon the concrete run near my shoes. The tarnish of
the city is no match for the determined sheets of water unleashed by the clouds.
A tall metal gate stands before me. Reaching towards it, I place my hands in
the middle of its’ intricately welded design. Pushing it forward it creaks
loudly as if questioning whether I am emotionally capable of handling what lies
behind its gilded doors.
For some, it’s too painful a memory. The indisputable proof
that their loved one is no longer with them. Graveyards. Places shown to house vampires, zombies and
all forms of malevolent dead. No, none of those reside in any crack of the many
mausoleums. Save perhaps the boogie man of our fear of dying.
In the daytime, the City Municipal Graveyard looks like a
lush public park. Complete with a few hanging willows and modest perennials
lining the pathways. Ignore the head stones and you could imagine yourself in
the fancy botanical garden that just opened.
To me, this is a resting place for my loss. A place to
escape from the suffocating clutches of the city and take a moment to realize
what is really important. Before it’s too late.
I count the marble fountains and statuettes, third from the
left from the sixth row. It would be more pleasant to count raindrops. Here we
are.
Here lies Katalina Richardson. 1964 – 2012.
Hello Mom. I’m not late am I? Here, I brought us tea and
goodies. Let’s enjoy the rain like we used too. Before you were taken away.
Rain is fleetingly precious. After the rain, the sadness builds up again.
