The Girl and the Rain

The nameless girl had always loved the rain. She loved the rain during those late winter afternoons, when she sat down in the lit kitchen, her mother's glowing smile from across the table driving all the fears away and her soft caring hands caressing her, telling her, in their own secret wordless language, that their love for her is unconditional, eternal. The sweet smell of the hot cocoa on the table would rise in the air, mixing with the warm chocolaty surprises baking in the oven and with the promise of always having this home to come back to.  
     And then there was that unmistakable scent of fresh young rain making its way to her through the slightly-open window. Oh, the rain! Cleaning the world out there and polishing the stained souls inside. If she could, she would capture all these smells, never letting them fade away. She could never resist the rain. When it started coming down, a power greater than her would propel her to leave the table, pulling back the white lace curtains and looking out through the watery glass. That magical moment when the gray cloudy quilt unfolded silently in the skies, covering the last remaining stripes of blue. Her curious eyes would lovingly follow the glittering drops in their long journey down to them, the people. From the minute they left their home in the skies, she was there, always there, never leaving their sight, her childish face pressed against the windowpane, as the rain came down, encountering flocks of migrating storks and tenderly fondling their thick feathers; and she was there when it continued down, jumping between the leafless branches of the trees and greeting the new blue-purple-pink petals of the blooming winter flowers and further streaming down to the thirsty soil, watering the first buds of life growing inside it. How she loved watching the rain land on the open umbrellas in the streets, introducing itself to the people, even though they have met it before, forming puddles on the sidewalks, a heaven for young booted feet, only wanting to jump inside.
     And the nameless girl loved the rain at night when it danced on the rooftops, playfully tapping the bricks and flowing in the gutters. How she loved hiding underneath her blanket, listening to it sing her good-night songs before falling asleep. Sometimes, when bright lightening lit up her room, she liked counting the seconds until the roars of thunder. One, two, three, four, five – boom! But she wasn't afraid. Her grandma told her once that thunders are one of nature's reminders for us; it's good to be a bit afraid of nature, as it's the only way to grasp its grandeur and never take it for granted.  
     The years went by and the nameless girl turned into the nameless woman, and her love for the rain matured and was ever so strong. And when it came pouring down, she would fill up her bathtub, and go inside. Because there was no better time for a bath than when the storm was raging outside. Sitting inside the overly-filled bathtub, foamy fragrant water spilling out all over the place, as her long legs danced in the water, her funny toes fully in-sync with the rhythmic tapping of the rain on her window. Only then could she close her eyes and forget about the long day behind her and those other ones, yet to come; forget about all that was wrong with the world and with her life; letting the waters wash it all away and guide her to those beautiful, magic-filled places, only existing in her dreams. And when the water became too cold so did her illusion, and she would then get out of the tub, placing her wet feet on the soaked carpet and wrap her shower robe around her body, walking in the direction of the kitchen, her wet footprints following her around. She would reach for the glass of red wine waiting for her on the table and walk to the living room, sitting  down on the armchair and opening the book she was reading. And the cool wind would not bother her, as it crept through the open window, swirling around the pots and the pans hanging in the kitchen, forming that unique metallic melody she loved so much.  
     Yes, the rain gave her back the freedom which had been taken away from her, from all of them, the other people, when they stopped being children. Drops of pure freedom coming down from the skies, allowing her thoughts to run free, blurring the outer world and permitting her, even if for just a short while, to give in; to give in to her well-kept imagination under all these thick layers of adulthood the passing years had brought upon her. And she would escape to her secret hiding places far beyond the mountains, and rivers, and seas, and skies, and time, which were always there, waiting for her to come for a visit when the going got tough.
     And when the rain ceased, she returned to being the nameless little girl, the nameless woman they all think they know but don't, and those loving hands of nostalgia, ever so delicately caressing her thoughts, would vanish in the haze. And there was nothing spectacular about her nor anything out of the ordinary to set her apart from all the other sad grownups, forever grieving their lost childhood. And on those rainless days, she couldn't see beyond what was standing in front of her and her mother's radiant smile was nowhere to be found in her dreamless sleep. On these days, which were far too many, there was no home waiting for her, there was no promise. And she lived her life like they all do, patiently waiting for the rain to come back and carry her where she truly belongs.  

* Photo: Michael Badt, http://www.flickr.com/photos/mibadt