Memories of Rain

Rain is my favorite thing about the seasons. I love how the droplets fall on the rooftops, dampening the tiles with a soft rhythm. They kiss the grass and trees, houses and streets, dry earth that thirsts for their touch. I also love how those droplets create a certain sensation - cool, fresh, cleansing--accompanied by the breeze that brushes against my skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and awakening a quiet longing within me.

Back in high school, I and my best friend had a habit of marking the transition from the dry season to the rainy season by watching the flamboyant trees. If their branches were suddenly ablaze with bright red-orange blossoms, it was a sign that the rainy season was approaching. It was our secret calendar; a message from Mother Nature that soon, the long, scorching days would end. The air would once again be filled with the scent of wet soil, fallen leaves, and the freshness that only rain could bring.

We had other signs too. The cicadas - the tiny tree-dwelling insects. Their wings rubbed together tirelessly, creating a high-pitched symphony that filled the afternoons. When their song grew louder and more frequent, it meant the rainy season would soon fade, making way for clear skies and sunlit days. We love this rhythm. It was as if Nature itself whispered to us, reminding us that everything changes, that nothing stays the same forever.

In Malang - East Java - the rainy season had its own romance. The city's old roads - Jalan Tugu, Jalan Mojopahit, Jalan Bandung, and Jalan Jakarta - were lined with giant trees whose thick branches stretched out, forming canopies over the streets. Moss and ferns clung to their trunks, with their tendrils reaching downward like curtains of green lace. When the rain poured, those trees became massive umbrellas, shielding the ground from the relentless downpour. And when the storm passed, the world transformed into something ethereal - wet leaves caught the soft glow of streetlights, puddles reflecting the sky like fragments of glass, and tiny droplets clung to the tips of each leaf, waiting to fall.

I had a habit walking along the sidewalks after the rain. It was intoxicating - the smell of earth and damp wood, wet asphalt, and freshly washed grass. It felt like stepping into the world that had just been reborn, fresh and quiet, as if time itself had paused. In those moments, I walked without purpose, allowing the world to simply exist around me and wrap me like an old, familiar hug.

One evening, lost in memories of those post-rain walks, I played an Al Green song and shared its link on Facebook. It was a song I used to hum while wandering alone after the rain, while my footsteps echoing against wet pavement. Every time I listened to it, I was transported back to those quiet streets of Malang city, to the feeling of misty air on my face, to the way my heart felt lighter under the gentle weight of the evening sky.

As the song played, a message popped up on my screen.

"I can see a black Chinese here."

I smiled.

It was a name he had given to me - on that somehow made me feel closer to him. He's from Atlanta, and for someone like him, playful teasing was a way of softening the walls between people. He had given me a name, and in return, he let me call him "black". It was an exchange that meant more than words, a quiet understanding that in a world filled with labels, we had created our own.

People often speak of colors in term of division - of lines drawn between shades of skin, of barriers built upon differences. But I had come to believe that colors, in their essence, were meant to bind rather than separate. There is a kind of kinship that comes from embracing what is often misunderstood. The sun is not the only thing that brings joy; even heavy clouds, thick with rain, can carry beauty. The scent of wet earth, the damp bark of trees, the way the asphalt shines under the glow of streetlights - these things, too, hold their own kind of warmth.

"I like Al Green's songs," I told him. "I love listening to them while walking alone outside after the rain."

"I like listening to them while walking around the lake," he replied. "And I love the rain too."

I didn't need to say anything more. I could feel the invisible thread pulling us closer. It didn't matter that we had been born on different continents, in different cultures, under different skies. In that moment, I knew that I could sit beside him, breathe in the damp air after a storm, watch a flock of geese glide across the lake, and listen to the same song.

Memories of rain had a way of binding hearts - perhaps more strongly than all the symbols of unity that the world tried so hard to enforce. Rain never asked where you came from. It never cared about the past, nor did it promise anything about the future. It simply fell, embracing everything in its path with the same quiet grace.

No hearts had to break. No sorrow needed to be immortalized.

----

I can still feel the breeze that rustles through the trees

And misty memories of days gone by

We could never see tomorrow, no one said a word about the sorrow

And how can you mend a broken heart?

How can you stop the rain from falling down?

How can you stop the sun from shining?

What makes the world go round?

----

The Al Green's song continued to play, its melody filling the air around me. And for a moment, I closed my eyes, letting the music carry me back to those quiet streets, where the rain still whispered its stories, where the trees still stood tall, where the memories still lingered like droplets on a leaf, waiting for the next breeze to set them free.