Rain

Rain. Most people find a rainy day gloomy and dim. I sure did, until I met her. I never saw the rain as purifying. I never knew that you could use it as an excuse to get your clothes, and hair all wet, and come in and have a nice hot drink. I never discovered that being in the rain felt like being wrapped in static or white noise until recently. It’s rather comforting.

My dad told me of how he used to lay out in the night, and watch the stars, and listen to the sounds of night time. Even in the winter. He’d ride his snowmobile out into a field, and stop the engine, and listen to the sounds, and look at the sky. I smiled as I listened to him talk. At least he can’t say I’m going loony on him, now that I know.

I know she hates water. But she loves to dance. The rain makes me want to dance, now. It’s soft pitter-patter on the roof, sounds like a drumming, rolling through my veins and bones. The funny part is, I can’t dance. Sure, I can slow dance, but I tend to stumble trying anything much more complicated.

It hasn’t been that long really, but time moves slow when you do. It felt like ages since I’d seen her face. I was afraid, however, to see her again. I wasn’t sure what to do. I wanted her to feel for me, love me. It was hard to tell if she still did or not. But I didn’t want to interfere with her plans. I respected her decisions. If she wasn’t happy with me, then I’d rather see her go. Even on a sunny day.

It was cloudy when we met in town. Humidity caused my hair to do somersaults over itself. Bad hair days didn’t bother me though. I actually enjoyed a disheveled look. Forecasts had predicted thunderstorms and scattered showers for the afternoon. I believed the Weather Man would deliver. I could smell the moisture in the air.

The thought of impending storms did naught, to distract me from my anxiety. A week had turned me into a neurotic wreck of a human being. Who can blame me? She said to meet her at the pizza place, her, I, and our friends hung out at. I reached it, somewhat late. I passed through the first set of glass doors, into the wood floored walkway. I was shaking uncontrollably, and my chest was heavy. I felt a lump in my throat. I sensed her familiar presence.

I passed the glass exit door, and I looked through. There she was. Looking at me, with a concerned look on her solemn face. I wished she’d smile. I was having trouble hiding the hurt on my face, but I managed an uneasy grin myself. Then I turned into the shop. I glanced behind the counter, Joe was working. I returned my gaze to her. Still hard-faced, she looked at me. I lowered my eyes, as I pulled a chair up, avoiding hers. Whether it was my imagination or not, I thought I saw pain in them.

“Hey,” she said, with a nonchalant wave.
“Hey,” I said weakly. My voice, still a coarse whisper. I sat down and stared at my feet for a moment. Thinking of something to say. I looked up into her eyes. Suddenly, I was at a loss for words. Lost in two, turbulent seas of bright blue. I sighed, dumbfounded. It was incredible how beautiful she was. She was like a Greek goddess, the kind you see immortalized in marble, yet here she was. Her delicate face, as if carved from stone, looked deep into me. The silence was painful, I strained to speak. “So…how have you been?”
“Alright, I guess,” she seemed anxious.
“Yeah,” The pizza shop became a considerably less desirable place to be, for a tryst to take place. “You want to go somewhere else? Like, for a walk or something?”
“Sure.”

We got up to leave, slowly. I couldn’t tell what was on her mind, she’s so unreadable and it scares me when she’s like that. It’s when she takes her walls down, and when she leans towards me and kisses my cheek with a giggle, or when I’d gaze deep into her eyes between kisses. It’s when she whispers things in my ear, or plays with my hair, that I melt, and I feel like I’m seeing her genuine self. I was scared. I think she was scared too.

On Main Street, the sky had gotten darker, and I closed my eyes, as the wind picked up, blowing my hair into my face. As I walked next to her, I let my hand out, half subconsciously, and half consciously. I hoped she would grab my hand, and give it a reassuring squeeze, and I thought to grab hers for moment. I thought better of it, lest not to frighten her. I made better use of it to brush the locks away from my eyes. We chatted some as we walked. Mostly about friends, and life. The stuff we always talk about.

Then I felt a raindrop graze my cheek. I smiled. “Hey, do you want to go to Elmwood?” I asked, and she thought about it for a moment.
“Okay.”

Another thing I discovered when I was with her-inside the vast world I became a part of when she took my hand and led me off-I learned cemeteries aren’t that scary after all. In fact, they’re rather peaceful. A warm energy tends to radiate off of Elmwood in particular. I felt it one winter day as I walked by. As we crested the hill where the green of Elmwood Cemetery meets the sidewalk on Washington St., they sky cracked open.
She growled, “Ugh, I hate water…”

I chuckled to myself, throwing my head back. The familiar feeling of water on my face. The sound of the rain, and the cars passing on the wet asphalt filled my ears. I let rain caress my face for a moment, before I returned to reality. Once, I did the same thing. Only the rain had been callous. It held back, as I stood there on the median line of my road under the streetlight. I wished for tears to come then. But they didn’t.

She turned and watched me, until I began to walk again. Curiosity flicked across her features for a moment. I believed I saw the hint of a smirk. We reached the circle in the center of the cemetery. The same place we had visited many times before. By now I was drenched and laughing. I spun around, arms spread. I marveled at how lucky I was.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
I stopped and turned to her. "It's incredible. Here I am, and here you are again,” She raised a skeptical eyebrow at me and I shrugged. “Care to dance?” I said, exaggerating with a terrible French accent. I held my hand out and she looked at it reluctantly. “Please?”

Shrugging she walked over to me, and took my hand. I felt a sensation, one I hadn’t felt since she said goodbye. It was her touch. The familiar touch of her hand, setting my nerves on fire. She draped her other arm from my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around her waist as I pulled her close to me. We slow danced in the rain, in the middle of a cemetery. I didn’t care. She was here, I was happy just to be close to her, to have her hand in mine.

I choked, as the lump in my throat disappeared, and I burst into tears. I buried my face in her shoulder. The tears came as I had so desperately wanted. I wasn’t sure whether they were tears of grief or joy. I was happy, sad, scared, amazed, dozens of feelings at once, all overflowing. Was I crying because I she left? Was I crying because I wished she would come back? Or was I crying because she did come back, if just for this moment?

I was crying because I knew I loved her. I was crying because I was afraid to lose her, of being hurt again. Because I wasn’t sure whether it was going to be the same as before. I was crying because I wanted to trust her more than anything. To believe that she would come back, that she wouldn’t hurt me. I was crying because there was so much uncertainty, yet I was certain I was in love with the angel who held me in her arms as I fell to pieces.

In all the time we spent, it seemed so short. I wanted to show her, or tell her somehow, how I felt for her. It was the tears that fell from my face onto her soaking shirt I wanted to show her all along. All the joy, spilling out, in the only way it could have. But to do so, it seemed, I had to know exactly what I had. Even if it was painful Even though I never took her for granted. I had to be able to let it go as well. I’ve heard it said that true love is selfless. To not let go is to be selfish. Could I let go? I wanted her to be happy. If that wasn’t with me, then yes.

The rain continued to pour. As we stood, in the graveyard. Wrapped in a blanket of static, and soaked to the core. The end of us is uncertain. Or clear as daylight. I am uncertain of so many things as I write this. But I am certain of just as many.


The End

-Something I wrote. To get some feelings out. I'm not exactly sure if there is a purpose for this. It just kind of sprouted from my heart, and my head. I do like it. I think it's my best piece, probably that i've ever written. At least i feel that way. It feels like it's easily the best story i've ever written. The longest one i think i've done. I feel proud of myself actually. And yeah, i really don't have much to say about it, except, i'm enthralled i could put so much down and make it flow. I need to proofread it more, i think. At least the better part of the second half of it. Anywho, enjoy.

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