My eyes zone out into the busy street. There are no cars, but the wind blows the branches on the trees and the leaves hang on for dear life. My feet curl up with my knees against my chest. The chalk on the sidewalk melts away. My fingers rest on my computer, but I don’t press any keys. The storm drain overwhelms with water, sucking in the mess through its clenched teeth. I push my glasses a little further up my nose. It looks cold out there, but it’s cold in here too.
The symphony of raindrops on my window mesh together into a white noise, focusing me on my schoolwork assignment. I’m supposed to be writing a poem. There’s some irony in having to write a poem against your will.
The persistent downpour on my window turns into a rain stick in a continuous flip, asking me to come perform with it – make some noise of my own. I’m not supposed to be standing out of my seat, but that’s where I find myself next. Near the door, I could put on my beat-up Reeboks or my water-logged Birkenstocks; maybe even sit down and tie on my running shoes, but I don’t. It seems like such a waste to wear them and get them wet.
I step outside and the squeak of the door announces my arrival. The music of the rain is a million times louder as it taps on every surface, not just my little rectangular window. I watch as the world around me floods, but my skin stays dry under the overhang on my front porch. Even if the sound of the rain weren’t so deafening, you wouldn’t be able to hear my soft steps skipping down the stairs.
As I reach the last step, my purple socks seep into a darker color, and my steps louden into a dank sop. My clothes outline my cold, stiff silhouette. Clothes aren’t really supposed to be worn wet.
I follow the cracks down my driveway where my sister and I used to sit. She used to do this thing whenever it rained, where she’d take me out to the middle of the driveway and we’d sit on the wet cement and eat fruit. My favorite was pineapple, even though I’m a little allergic to it. She liked raspberries. It’s too bad she went off to college; I wonder if it’s raining where she is. I hear it often does.
Dividing my sidewalk and the street is a small stream. What was once dry pavement is now a prominent tributary making its way to the drain. I could step over it, make it to the other side, or I could stay in my driveway and enjoy the view from here. I inch forward so my toes dip in the chilly runnel. Or I could jump in it.
The water is clear and very shallow, so the landing is no surprise, but the splash is what shocks me, making a spray of water around me. Who knew wet socks could get even wetter?
Jumping turns to twirling – it’s easy to follow the rhythm of the rain.
It’s peaceful out here, all alone, but this sort of dancing seems like something meant for a pair. It feels like a scene from a movie – spinning in the rain with every worry washing away – but this clip only stars one character. It feels like I’m not supposed to be out here by myself, but even alone, my worries flow down wherever that drain leads.
“What are you doing out there?” A concerned voice takes my attention back to the porch. I can see how it wouldn’t be appealing to stand out here–
“I don’t really know!” my own voice echoes back.
–and it kind of sucks being out here alone–
“Well, aren’t you cold?”
–but I know that even if no one comes out with me–
“Yeah, a little.”
I’ll still have someone back at the house holding the door open, for whenever I’m ready to come back in. And even by myself, I’ll keep stepping out in the rain, because sometimes there’s something about the wrong that just seems so right.
