I was just walking up the hill to the store to [REASON REDACTED], when a light Spring rain began to fall. The thick, sparsely allotted droplets left splotches on my black cloth coat and rendered my glasses useless. I put the glasses in my pocket, and tucked my laptop under my arm, under my coat.

I continued up the hill until it crested, and descended a bit toward the store before resigning myself to returning home. I did not want to be soaked, nor to short out the circuitry of my already aged and declining laptop. My [REASON REDACTED] would need to again wait for another day.

So many people out on Sunday in [PLACE REDACTED]. Oh, and it’s Easter as well. I let the implicit questions of my thoughts trail off as I do, and ducked under scaffolding for a brief respite from the rain. Though, like all the other adults and children I saw walking slowly in both directions, I was not bothered by the soft drops. A woman entering an apartment building dragging luggage yelled in my direction as if to urge someone to catch up, but at that point I was alone on the street. I passed by and walked down the steps carved into the hill.

I continued the descent toward home, passing restaurant workers gathered under awnings. The smell of the rain remained full and overwhelming; one of the few features of Winter’s departure that don’t fill me with nameless discontent. As I write this, I hear through the pipes of my building a woman doing voice exercises. First, a mid range scale of dipthonged phrases starting with ‘y’. Then a clear ‘e’ and ‘o’ falsetto scale with each note descending at the end like a slide whistle. Then heavy vibrato on ascending ‘ah’s. A single repetitive bird tweets in the distance. And of course, the incessant low hum of modern buildings, distant traffic, landing planes. Place redacted.

Nearing my apartment, a woman and a child ran past me to assemble under one of the restaurant awnings. The little girl was visibly excited by the event of the rain, the environment’s guidance toward the awning, its providing a direction, a reason. The tactile delight of the large droplets, the Spring scent of rain, the quickly changing sidewalk absorbing the water. The woman ran behind, and listened.

I thought about how these moments are what you imagine make up a childhood. I thought that these are the things you remember, though as I write this I realize that I don’t remember any such thing in particular. But why does it need to be in particular? I remember running across a field to escape a lightning storm. Everyone else went ahead, or perhaps I beat them all. The destruction of a tree illustrated the real danger we were in, though I never felt any danger. I was just running along, carried away by the event.

Passing them, I crossed the last street and turned into the barren courtyard of my building. Approaching the glass entrance, I saw reflected the woman and child running past.

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