photo from here
It’s June in the year 1990, I was 7 years old then.
A gust of cold wind hit my face and I saw through my window the confluence of gray, angry clouds hovering like giant cotton balls in the sky. Then comes what I have been waiting for —- a downpour of pitter-patter on our iron roof which draws a smile on my face. I am joyously happy when it rains. Rain is not an excuse to stay in, it’s the perfect time for me and my brother to go out and play with the rain gods. And the Hawaiian frogs in our garden are vocalizing so loudly as if summoning us to celebrate this gloriously wet afternoon, inviting our itchy feet to play on the puddles and calling us to shake the rain-kissed branches of the hibiscus in our garden.
My brother and I have been waiting for this day, the first rain of June . We haven’t seen rain this generous for a long time since we lived for 2 years in a place where sandstorms and hailstorms never gave us a reason to play outside safely.
Rain is more friendly, we believe so. Days like this are priceless, it’s not everyday that you can take a bath in the biggest shower room created for a moment by mother nature. I say a silent thank you to my parents that we came home to this country where almost half of the year is purely a season of rain and unwelcome typhoons.
Oh how we love rain! Rain that soaks us and creates all sorts of puddles —big, small, deep and shallow. There’s all sorts of muddy puddles where I can sink and stomp my feet in and the crystal clear puddles on the road where I can see my Philippines-to-Timbuktu smile staring back at me. The rain washes away my old childhood longing of the Philippines and fills my thirst for the 2 years I missed doing things like this. I close my eyes and lift my head to feel the drops of rain on my face. The songs of the frogs continue all afternoon — we share their joy as rain creates a whole new playground for us without the sun to spoil it. We played games, hugged trees, smelled the flowers and as a final reverence to the rain, I stick out my tongue to taste a few drops of rain— i take it as a kiss from heaven. As my brother and I race to the shower room, we look back and send all gratitude and love to the beginning of the rainy season, as it blesses the ground and everything it touches including us — children of the rain as we call ourselves.
Yes, we are indeed children of the rain.
After we shower , we dry out and head to our dining table to join the rest of the family. Our grandmother then hands everyone hot mugs filled with her homemade dark chocolate made of pure cacao tablets and we gather around as the rain pours in the background of family chatter and the amphibian melody goes on all night. One sip of the hot chocolate and the love just goes straight to warm our hands and bring solitude to our young energetic souls. It warms our hearts which were soaked already with happiness from the rain but with plenty of room to receive the boundless gift of freedom that only childhood can impart.
A dance in the rain, a chorus with the frogs, capped with hot chocolate shared with the love of family — that to me is the perfect rainy afternoon of my childhood.
This memory was inspired by this