After the Rain - Short Story

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.