Summer Rain

I always hated the way summer rained.

How her tears would form in little puddles gathering at the base of her eyes, and how they’d flow into rivers dancing down her cheeks, settling into droplets at the tip of her chin. Then those same droplets would evaporate into thin air, new droplets forming in their place.

She always loved to dance in the rain when dark clouds covered the sky. Her feet would strut in a small pattern of circles splashing along the gravel. The downpour would beat into her skin, the chills penetrating her bones.

“I feel like all my troubles just wash away.”

 She’d twirl and twirl in her rugged frilly skirt lined with worn ribbons, the stitches poking out in every direction. And when she’d finally stopped dancing, her lunacy at its end, she stared upwards clutching the frills of her skirt. She watched with expectancy as if something was supposed to appear above her. She’d wait. And wait.

And wait.

 After a while, she’d silently close her eyes, and the growing rivers would flow down her face.

She was as beautiful as the moon. She had a smile made of pearls that radiated from her face down to her fingertips, beaming in the shrouded darkness. Whenever she turned to me, she’d ask,

“Do I smile pretty?”

She always asked that same question. She’d look up at me with those clear, deep brown eyes. They were glassy, perfect orbs, that would leave you staring at your reflection whenever you looked at her.

I remember one summer night when we both snuck out of the orphanage to gaze at the stars. We’d planned our little escape for months: sketching out small maps of the halls, monitoring where the officers stood guard. We even went as far as giving our food to whoever happened upon our little plot hoping to stop their mouths from running. That night I stood watch as she made her way through a convenient little gap in the hidden corner of the wired fence. I could hear heavy footsteps approaching, my heart pounding with each following “thud”. I held my breath as she made it through, the tip of her worn pink shoe disappearing from sight.

As the footsteps grew louder, I stood as still as I could, pressing my back against the brick wall, a blind spot to the guard heading our way. I remember sending up a silent prayer at that moment.

‘Please just this once.’

I heard a clear shout as another guard yelled a name. Taking the opportunity, I dove for the small crawl space while the approaching officer was distracted. I moved without looking back. Even when I saw the bright beam of a flashlight pointing in my direction.

That exciting feeling as we made our way through the field is something I will never forget. We were running like maniacs while a bunch of words were being thrown over the fence. But we didn’t stop. We made up our minds that there was no turning back at this point.

I grabbed her hand and urged her forward.

“C’mon we’re almost there!”

Then the clearing came into sight, a large opening without any grass, just compacted dirt with a small circular slab of concrete center stage. We stopped running as we finally reached that little circle. She stood alone on the centered concrete.

I turned to her, watching her eyes light up brighter than the stars. Man, my cheeks burned cherry red that night. Her eyes met mine, and I could have sworn that I saw the affection I had for her mirrored back at me. At that moment I was so flustered that I let her hand go and tried to play it off with an obvious cough. She laughed, and I knew I had made a fool of myself.

I fell into her smile, and how her little dimple was peeking from the right side of her face. I heard a faint, distant rumble. I looked up in disbelief. Never in my life have I seen the weather change so quick, so suddenly. It couldn’t rain, not tonight of all nights. But the clouds kept forming. That nostalgic wind was picking up, the type that whistles in your ears. I didn’t want this moment to end, not after we fought so hard for it.

“We should probably head back”, I said reluctantly.

She looked at me, and for the first time, I realized I couldn’t read her. I didn’t see myself in her eyes. She wasn’t smiling, and neither were her eyes. Her eyes. They weren’t clear anymore. They were foggy, obscuring your vision from whatever hid underneath them. I don’t even remember if her eyes were still brown. She turned her gaze back to the sky, lifting her hand to catch small raindrops.

“Lets stay for a little bit.”

Thinking back now, she never specified how long. She never said she wanted to go back. She just waited. And waited.

And waited.

Small raindrops began to fall as the wind grew stronger.

“It’s going to start pouring soon! Come on lets head back!”

I tried to yell over the rough wind. Even though I stood in the same place, it felt like I was being pushed back further and further from her. I hugged myself tight trying to keep warm as the cold crept in. The wind kept taking sharp cuts at my skin.

I felt wet globs hit my head. The rain was no longer a small drizzle. I remember feeling panicked. The storm felt like a hurricane, and she was standing right in the center.

I shouted her name, once, thrice. She wasn’t listening anymore. Instead she twirled. And twirled. I rushed to grab her, to shake her out of it. A large gust of wind blew into my face, like it was trying to push me back. A stronger gust blew with every effort I made to reach her.

On that rainy night, among all the others we’d spent together, she smiled. Her hands clutched her skirt. Her face was tilted upwards. The growing rivers were flowing, but she was smiling. The rumble grew louder, and louder, and louder.

I finally overcame the ferocious wind, lunging for her with an outstretched arm. Then, all I remember seeing was white.

It was a type of white that you see in your dreams, where there’s no shadows, no corners, no shades, just white.

White the color of the moon. White, the color of pearls. White, the color of the stars. White, the true color of her eyes.

My ears still ring to this day. It feels like someone stuck my head inside a large bell, constantly keeping me awake, especially on rainy days.

On nights like this, when the pane of the window is chilled, the patters against the glass are loud, and you can hear those low angry rumbles in the sky, I go for long, long drives. I check every sidewalk, every park, every street, every riverbank, every bridge, and every empty field. I don’t stop even after my clothes are soaked through, drenched in tears hoping that I can catch those rivers before they overflowed.

Maybe, just maybe, if I find them before they form droplets, before they become rivers, before they collect into puddles that form on the inside, maybe I can-

I can protect her?

Cover her with an umbrella of warmth, while I stand in the pouring rain, atoning for my mistakes.

How could I have failed to notice the color that drained from her eyes long before the river had run dry?