There have been too many gray days as of late.
I wish I weren’t so easily swayed by
the presence of sun or clouds or rain or snow or sand, but I am.
From the way I say “Hello” to the way I brush my teeth, I am changed.
Yes, I hear your teasing
but no, I don’t agree.
From the earliest light, the once white clouds grew heavy with perspiration and stooped low towards the earth. The grey clouds huddled together as if preparing for a big game. Little could be seen above and beyond them—they sought center stage. Without the warning of a sprinkle the heavens erupted with hydrant-like rain. It was not a vicious rain—like some days when the rain falls sideways and your umbrella fights like a girl against the onslaught. And it wasn’t a gentle rain that lingers with the unique rhythms of a modern ballet dance. This was a rain that brought back recollections of Sunday school lessons of a man named Noah. Puddles joined together to form rivers and lakes and oceans of the sweet-smelling nectar. At the same moment I wanted both to cower inside—afraid of the hassle of wet jeans and running mascara—and to race outside to join the rhythm of pitters and patters and pops and splatters. I wanted to open my mouth wide to the heavenly liquid. I wanted to wade into the river, testing just how far I could go without being washed away.
It was a cleansing rain.
Then, nothing. With the abruptness of a last inhaled breath, the downpour stopped. Its absence left an odd wondering of if it ever occurred in the first place—having been so intense and yet so short-lived—like a whirlwind summer romance. The grime had washed down the drains and the streets and sidewalks were left sparkling with the lingering sequins of the rain. The sun appeared with a striking heat and dried all final trademarks of the earlier morning. The chimes on shop doors on the neighboring streets began to ring, signaling the return of normal operations. The lives that were forced to press pause resumed at twice the speed, making up for lost time and rescheduling appointments. It was easy to miss. But if you walked outside to the bench on 12th and Sycamore Street, breathed in deep, and opened your eyes wide—you would have seen a world cleaned by undeserved means.
People cleaned by undeserved means—that too often forget to see.