“DC, what’s the rain like there?”

Here, it’s warm. You know it’s about to rain when the wind suddenly stops, and you feel sweat form around your forehead and your lips.

Then, it’s quiet. A gentle drop on the ground. Then two. Then five. And when you look up, you see drop after drop after drop fall.

It drips on your arm, your skin, your cheeks. It dampens your clothes, your shoes, your hair.

There is the smell, too. Petrichor, that warm smell that comes from the ground. It’s earthy, it’s damp, it’s familiar.

The rain falls gently, steadily, like little kisses. Little kisses that remind you of your mother’s love, of butterflies dancing on your arms, of promises of a lover’s tryst.

And then it falls, hard. Big angry drops, like tears after you hurt, get hurt, recover from hurt. It falls like little daggers, soaking you to the core.

You outstretch your arms and welcome the rain like a long lost friend. And it embraces you back, being the only one to understand your tears when the rain falls.

For myan.

Image source: hajox.deviantart.com/art/rain-wide-168959379
First written March 11, 2018.

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