The Fishermen Song

Have you ever spoken to the rain? 

She did. She’d lift her head up, gaze at the clouds, and listen closely. 

“Listen.” She’d say. “Listen to the rain.”  

I'd look up at the greying clouds but hear nothing. Because the rain never spoke to me. It only spoke to her. I wish I knew what it said. What secrets they shared. I always imagined it spoke in whispers. Something so beautiful. I remember the day we sat by the lake. The trees waltzed with the wind around us. Autumn leaves broke away and swayed in twirls towards the infinite. The smell of the earth was so pungent. So pure. I stole a glance at her, sitting beside me. Eyes reaching for the sky. Her soft, silky hair flew behind her. Drips of water fell on her nose, and it made her smile. As though the rain had just shared an inside joke. 

“What did it say?” I said at the time, still not getting anything. 

“It said its happy we’re both here. Everybody else is leaving.” 

I looked around, and realized it was true. The minute the clouds gathered, and the rain picked up; people started to leave. Families packed their lunches and headed for their cars, dragging their kids behind. An older couple snapped their umbrella open and wobbled to the parking lot, wrapped in a hug. The park stood almost empty, save for us and the bikes that drove us here. 

“People don’t like getting wet.” I said. 

She giggled, allowing the beads of water to dribble from her chin. “I know. It’s weird, isn’t it?” 

The thunder didn’t spook her. I watched it flash in the distance, roaring its dominance. But she never flinched. Not even a little. She said that the thunder, the clouds, and the rain are one. They complemented one another. Just like she and I. Just like everything around us. The earth, the sky, the wind, the animals, the trees. Humans. We all speak to one another. Connected by a celestial bridge.

“But what happens when things die?” I had asked. “Wouldn’t that break the connection? The bridge, I mean.” 

She shrugged. “There is no death. You only move on to the next life. And then the next, and the next. It never ends. Life goes on.” 

I didn’t understand it at the time, and honestly, I didn’t bother to inquire any further. I was satisfied with what she said. Whether it was true or not, I didn’t care. I liked the sound of it. Life goes on. It sure seemed like it did. 

I remember she liked to sing. She’d make up some new songs and sing them to me on our way to school. She said the clouds helped her come up with the right words. She even proved it once. We were walking to school on a spring day when she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gazed up. I watched her fix her eyes on the sky’s languid movement. Silent. Everything around us was so silent. I feared that time had stopped. That we’d be stuck here forever, and I’d never hear her sing again. Then her lips moved, and she smiled.

“Look,” She pointed a finger. “They look like sailing ships. The blue sky is the ocean.”

I looked up, shielding my eyes from the glaring sun. “Ships? I don’t know, maybe.” 

“They’re telling a story. About the fishermen at Black Bear Lake.” Her light hair swooshed over her shoulders. She stayed still, like one of those porcelain figures my mom liked to buy from a local antique shop.  

“What kind of story?” I asked. 

She paused, then said. “The normal kind. Fishermen came to the lake yesterday morning, opened their nets, and threw them into the waters. When the sun left, so did they.” 

I didn’t know how to feel about that. It sounded a little. “Boring.” I said. “Why would the clouds tell you that?”

She wasn’t offended by it. She actually giggled. “It doesn’t have to be interesting to be beautiful. The fishermen were happy to be there. They loved the big puffy cloud because it gave them cool shade when it became too hot. We’re all connected, remember?” 

She later sang the song about the fishermen. The one that the clouds inspired her to sing. I can’t remember much of the words today, but I remember it went something like this: Far out on the ocean, the fishermen pull. Far out on the ocean, the tide will roll. There were tides, seagulls, and ropes. I pictured the strings of sunlight hitting the ocean. The smell of salt and sweat. It stayed with me for days. 

Until one day, months from then, I heard that song again. I remember that day so vividly. Like it was yesterday. I heard that song on the radio. It was sung by a school choir. It wasn’t exactly the same, but it was pretty close. Far out on the ocean, the fishermen pull. Far out on the ocean, the tide will roll. I couldn’t believe it. How did they know the words? I rode my bike and raced to her house. I wanted to tell her about the radio song right away. 

She beamed, joyful. “I told you! It’s the bridge. We’re all connected. They probably saw the ships in the clouds, or at least, one of them did.”

Whether I believed her or not, I didn't know. But these are stories that I will hold so dear. Even though still today, I haven’t been able to hear the whispers of the rain. Every now and then, I'd lift my head up to the clouds and watch the rain go down. The sound it makes as it hits the window. Drizzling on the tall metal pipe that almost touches the sidewalk. The splashing of water behind speeding tires. The blurred orange hue of streetlights, just before the sun tucks behind the horizon. Closing a lid on a darkened sky. I try to listen. Hopeful it’ll speak to me like it did to her. But it never did. It only spoke to her.