The First Rain

Today was the first real rain of the season and when I woke up, there was a darkness in my room that could only be caused by the strange mix of daylight and darkness. The sound outside was gentle, fuzzy almost, as water struck everything and I thought perhaps I was still dreaming.

Then, all day it poured, so steady in its beat that you would forget it was there. Until the dim shadows in the room reminded you you needed a light.

Rain is one of my favorite things, perhaps because it allows me to seek comfort in things I wouldn’t normally do. I curled up on the old sofa, after turning up the jazz station, and read a book, drank some tea, and ate a cookie or two. The smell of beans with garlic and tomato permeated the house, preparing my stomach for an excellently warm dinner.

People often tell me how much they hate the rain, but for some reason I almost prefer it to other kinds of days. When I was in Scotland, I prepared myself for the weather everyone talked about, how I would miss seeing the sun. But to the contrary, I loved the fresh puddles, the chance moments when the clouds blew over and a fierce ray of sunlight would protrude.

And as for this kind of rain, I love the grayness, the joyous look of plants neatly washed of dust, the overwhelming musty cleanness of the air. And it’s amazing how different the rain smells depending on what time of year it is. The warm hot rains of a humid summer somehow create an impossible electricity, making your skin yearn for dryness. But now, this time of year, the fall rain refreshed and cooled, restored and re-envisioned a landscape for another season.

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