In the first breaths of morning, I awoke to grey sky. A softness hung in the air, as though the sky opened up her expanse to cradle us. I stuffed my feet in banana yellow galoshes and ran out the door. The pavement was slick of fresh rain. The streets smelled of after-rain, wafting from every corner of every sidewalk.
These were the days I liked best. The pace of the world felt sleepy, everyone was forced to slow, to just be. On these days I didn’t always have a strong destination or sense of purpose. I felt content to be. A puddle, I leaped over it, another puddle, I jumped in. Droplets of tiny spheres of water erupted as I splashed, sprinkling the pavement like fairy dust.
I was reminded of rainy days in childhood. Playing under the muted sky, my hair getting stringy from the unrelenting rain overhead. On those days I liked to lean my head back, stick my tongue out, and catch a few droplets on my tongue- as if it quenched my longing to be one with the Earth.