I have a terrible relationship with rain.
I remember my navy blue canvas shoes —more times sloppy than dry. They squelched and let out dirty bubbles. Sometimes tadpoles swam too close to my feet, other times the water was thigh high and I waddled like a penguin in slush to cross my street.
When I watched movies romanticise rain, my distracted heart halted and searched for slush and mire in the frame. Once, a snake wound itself on my ankle to cross ashore. I wasn't alarmed, just relieved I made it back home without drowning in the dirty pool. When I got back home, I scrubbed them clean. A strong smell of algae permeated our balcony and living room as I let it dry.
Today, I'm in a city where the water drains an hour after it rains, and yet I avoid the rain like the virus. Last night I wanted to walk in the rain, simply to wash away my worries and fears.
But what good would that do?
I like the rain only when I'm booted up and covered in a rain coat.
When I have an umbrella to protect my head,
and a glove— each to cover my cold hands.
A walk in the rain has never been carefree, and it never can be.
I'd need more than a push. A shove, to give it a shot.
Rain lovers, how have you dealt with rain growing up?