Cold Rain

Why does the rain have to be so cold here? I miss being warmly soaked by some sudden deluge, by some distant thunderclap and unexpected downpour.

My parent's subdivision (funny, how it's theirs now, and no longer mine) was built in an old rice field. The street gutters would overflow when the tropical storms came, pushing dead leaves and debris halfway up the lawns. Dark, low clouds and large, heavy, constant raindrops kept the world small, pulled in the walls and ceiling. Cars would circle the block until the water went down (or the drivers' courage came up) enough to ford through the churning, wet mess.

My mom used to get after us for playing in the deep ditches when it flooded. Fears of snakes or worms or ants or drowning or currents or sharp unseen glass shards. There were no storm drains to get caught in, just asphalt and concrete. We'd come home covered in mud and grass clippings, shedding our sopping outer skins at the front door. And after the rain and the water withdrew, the new crawdad holes would be visible, evidence new life made from clean clay.

I remember riding my bike through a flooded field one night when I was fourteen. The rain had stopped, and my clothes were still soaked. The warm, balmy, summer air felt nice. The full moon reflected brightly off the clear, flat, calm surface of the two-inch-deep lake where the field was. My front tire ripped softly through the water, whirring crisply, and I remember feeling alive. Like I was running on water, somewhere between flying and speedboating, the humid air suddenly cool on my skin. I remember laughing and dodging and sliding out on my back tire, avoiding the much deeper water in the roadside ditch.

I miss that. Here, rain's just cold.