Remembering the Rain

I’m in the coffee shop and can smell the rain before it comes down. In sheets it starts slowly and then dark clouds mask the sunshine and hail balls pound the pavement. The sky cracks and thunder echoes outside, providing a backdrop to the Norah Jones soundtrack that plays softly in the warm café.

I look out through the padlocked French doors and see the violet petals now flattened in small pools of water. I wish I had my camera because right now, the reflections are beautiful.

A little girl with nothing wrong, and she’s all alone…

I momentarily flash back to my living room in Portland. The gray outside, the fire in the fireplace—perhaps it’s a Sunday. Norah Jones is playing on the old CD player that was a gift from an ex-boyfriend of my mom’s. Or is it a friend of Ben’s?

My mom and I are reading in the living room. Muffy is curled up next to the fire. And I have this feeling that runs through my entire body: I am so content in this little world. I never need to go outside, I can stay in all day and do exactly this. If it is possible, I feel nostalgic for a moment that is happening as I am experiencing it.

My mom looks over at me and says that the song reminds her of me. I smile and understand why.

Spinning, laughing, dancing to her favorite song...

When I was really little, my mom used to play Bach on the piano. There was one song in particular that was my favorite and I would spin around the living room, twirling and twirling as the music climaxed. I would jump up on the couch and then down again completely uninhibited. When the music came to a close I would fall dramatically in the middle of the floor.

I don’t know if my mom noticed as she concentrated on the keys. Her long fingers elegantly stretching the octaves, pressing down as she glanced up again to check the music.

Eyes wide open, always hoping for the sun…

There are few distinct memories that I have. I have always wanted to be someone like my friend Kyle who can remember nearly every moment that ever happened—what was said, who was there (for better or worse)—but rather my memory is composed of feelings contrived from a series of events.

But the rain always takes me back to Portland.

To the warmth of the house, the smell of the fire (slash Duraflame log).

To Christmases spent running down the stairs in the morning and finding oranges in the bottom of my stocking. 

To stripping off soaking wet running clothes or shin guards and feeling cold to my very core-- even after a shower and takeout from Du’s.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m traveling to search for something. To search for a place that was as comfortable as my childhood. I have met people and learned about myself, I have encountered sadness and turmoil no matter where I am in the world.

But yet, whenever it rains if I close my eyes I am back in the living room-- spinning and twirling to the music. I am unsure if the knot in my stomach signifies my sadness at a time that has passed or my yearning for another complete moment that perhaps won’t slip through my grasp so easily this time.

Crooked little smile on her face. Tells a tale of grace that’s all her own.

The rain clears and they push the windows open letting in the sunlight. The music switches to salsa and my cloud of memory is gone. Through the French doors, only the puddles and petals remain.