The Urbаn Prophet™ 5.0

I love the rain.

Since I was a kid, I've always gotten real excited every time it rained. I was the kind of kid who'd run right out into the thick of it to dance in the puddles, and laugh at the top of my lungs. The rainwater felt cool and refreshing, it gave me a real high just standing there. I suppose it was the whole excitement a rainstorm brings. We'd hear the thunder first, a deep rumbling sound, herald of the rain yet to come. Thunder this side of the world comes in deep load growls and roars; none of that timid rumbling you get to the west. Slowly but surely the Sun would begin to dim as the clouds gathered in a chaotic medley of white, greys, and black. Then the first pitter-patter of raindrops that would cause Mum to stop what ever she was doing to rush out and grab the laundry.

I'd run out to, smile on my face and try to help but usually I would just get in the way and be more of a nuisance but Mum wouldn't mind a bit. Then as she'd rush in trying not to drop anything, I'd stay outside to welcome the rain. First, it would slowly come dripping and drizzling in little drops the size of no more than that of a grain of sand. Then steadily it would build up drop-by-drop, drip-by-drip to a gushing torrent to the peals of thunder, God's orchestra.

How I loved every bit of it. A literal wall of water, so heavy it almost hurt to stand in it. I'd run around laughing myself silly with my dear old Mum yelling from the house to come in for I might just catch my death of a cold. Not that that bothered me. All I could think of was the electric energy of the storm brewing the earth to mud. Eventually though I'd listen to my Mum and run back in, a sorry, dripping wet little boy, hair in my eyes shivering from the cold. Mum would then scold me in her special way for not listening to her and staying out when I should have been in. Then she'd dry me up and dress me in new clothes and a hot cup of cocoa and let me snuggle up to her while we watched T.V. and she'd brush her little boys' hair back into shape.

Thinking about it deeply now, maybe it was not so much the rain I loved but the comfort after the storm. Memories may come but they will never go, it maybe that the memories the rain brings back to me takes me back to the safest place that I felt I could be. As I sit here all these years since, drinking my cocoa I suppose a little eight year old wants to dash out into the storm only to come back into the warmth. Or it could be that this is but a silly reminiscence of an over romantic soul.

Whatever it is, I still love the rain.