It's in the rain that I'm all things.
Still a child on the porch with my father, Charlie beside us, listening to the thrumming of the water and the rolling thunder. Fascinated by the cleave of lightning as it slices through the sky. Laughing together when it made us jump. "Whoa! Did you see that!"
In joy, I'll jump into the puddles. Kick and splash my feet. Stomping and stepping and waddling like a duck. (Yes, I quack.) Each little pool's surface a mystery. Is it shallow, waiting to shatter at my touch? Or is it deep, wanting to swallow me whole and take me away?
Running through the glade, Charlie in front, as the wind whips the trees to its will. The rain is lashing against me and I skid under the white pine. I'm coated with needles and mud and it's just fine. We sit there, wet dog and I, and watch the rain pour down. Feel the drops through the branches.
I'm a mother, rushing and lecturing. Umbrellas and raincoats. Boots if we must but, mud feels great between your toes. It's perfectly fine to play in the rain, my children. Does your shower make you sick? Don't rush inside, stay and enjoy it. Water just flows and sometimes, so should we. Later we'll cuddle and watch, tea and cocoa and peace. Perfectly happy with you both.
I'm a lover, aching in my desire to feel each drop against me, around me. The rush, the energy, and the thick of the air. The whistling of the wind, calling to me to dance. To get up from my desk, shed my 3 layers, and heed its call. That bit of hedonism that I allow myself.
After, with the wet, earthy smell, so pure and alive. A reminder that rain can wash the wicked. I must be a sinner, because I never feel so clean.