Green rain

a reminder of what makes us feel alive

The sky darkens and the winds spell rain. Your pace quickens. The leisurely walk home becomes a means to an end – you must get home. The drizzle thickens and you zip up your bag, drawing it closer to your body to prevent collatoral damage. You have with you, after all, some valuable things – your phone, your film camera. You try to calculate the grace period, based on the increasing intensity of the downfall, and the distance from home. You think, at this pace, you might make it.

A lady on the other side of the street, umbrella drawn, is slightly more relaxed. You wonder, for the tenth time this year, why you still haven’t bought a new umbrella.

At not quite the steady rate of change you had hoped for, the drizzle gives way to a torrent. Your shoulders hunch upwards and your footsteps increase to a run. Not the kind of run that makes you feel free, commanding of speed and space. But an anal, constricted run. Ugly and self-conflicted.

Your shoes fill with water and your sweater starts to stick to your undershirt.

And then, somewhere between panic and home, you realise – you have again the capacity to notice – that the rain is, actually, somewhat pleasant. Soaking your hair, it feels tepid, not cold as you had in your mind.

You catch that smell that only comes in rain, the smell of wet soil. The smell of life.

The neighourhood glistens as it quenches itself.

Everything is very green. Your vision is green. Your body, too.

You did not know you had been thirsty.

You are close to home now, only half a block away, but you slow back to a walk. Your shoulders loosen and you tilt your cheeks up to the source.

Home, you have an urge to undress, and run around the garden.

You make love to your partner, and talk about what makes you feel alive.