Catch the rain

Sitting on the floor of my bedroom, playing guitar with the lights out and the window open, it smelled like it was going to rain. The harsh yellow sunlight faded into the characteristic deep green glow of an oncoming storm—and as it’s patently The Future, my phone lit up with the push notification from Dark Sky saying “heavy rain in 5 minutes.”

I ambled towards the front door, and stepped outside with the excuse of checking the mailbox to check out the clouds. The unwanted catalogues I pitched in the neighbour’s recycling bin as I felt the first few drops of water land on my face. I sat down at the kitchen table to watch the rain begin to fall.

I blinked and waterfalls were coming down. Puddles instantly formed, and the heavy drops hit the parking lot raising clouds of spray, which were carried by the sudden gusts of wind in through my open window to mist my face.

I’ve always been of two minds about rain: to be caught in a sudden downpour is horrendous, but there’re few more freeing acts than to choose to go play in the puddles during a summer storm. A month ago I had belaboured the decision and left the house only after the downpour had lightened. I walked around the neighbourhood in the drizzle and was teased by the clouds and denied a bone-soaking. And eight days ago thunder filled the sky at sunset on the hottest day of the year to date, and I went out to meet the rain. But while the air was thick with water and the clouds rumbled incessantly, no rain ever fell and the mosquitoes feasted on my legs. This summer has been remarkably wet, but I’ve met only disappointment trying to catch the rain.

It had to happen right now. I had barely enough forethought to quick change back into yesterday’s dirty underwear so I could have today’s dry for later, then I took my phone out of my pocket and ran outside. The rain was rolling off the roof like the house was a waterpark fixture; walking through the falling sheet of water was like jumping into the deep end. The wind was heavy and violent, and warm drops of water splashed against my face and stung my eyes. My red t-shirt turned bloody, ruddy brown as I held my arms outstretched and grinned. A bicyclist rode by pitiful and dripping mad, confused by my happy stillness: me from another time.

Two summers ago I had fled town with a friend, Jenny, who shares my birthday. School let out for the summer and proudly claiming our independence we went and stayed in a low-budget hostel around 101st St. in New York City. Our first day there, we decided to walk down Broadway so we could turn our backs on Times Square.It was a hot day and the asphalt glowed, so we came back through Central Park on our way home. Rounding a corner in what part of the park I’ve long forgotten, an assembly of maybe twenty healthy looking young adults came into view. Shaded from the sun by a grove of trees, they were standing in the grass in a circle doing a hybrid of yoga and ballet.

We saw only an abbreviation, coördinated and rhythmic: on beat one, the clouds covered the sun; on beat three, I noticed a front of rain stampeding across the park towards us; on beat four it hit them and they stayed still; when beat one came again, they scattered in all directions. We stood there getting wet; “they summoned the rain,” Jenny said.

Today I turned and did my own free dance as the rain soaked through my clothes and weighted me down. Then not five minutes after it started, the downpour let up and the wind chilled me through my wet clothes. The people working outside who took shelter during the downpour remerged, and I returned to the house, stripped off my sopping clothes, and grabbed a towel.