Some–many of my fondest memories involve water. Rain, especially.
There was a day when it was pouring. I was at the Bellflower house. After school. The rain fell hard and I stood looking at it through the glass doors of the dark living room. I was alone in the house. I watched the rain flow over through the lush leaves of the persimmon tree. It drew me out onto the covered patio. The sound of it soothed me, invigorated me. And I walked out into it. Walked under the persimmon tree and let it drench me. My jeans were soaked, I was soaked to the skin. I came back inside and peeled off my clothes and changed into warm, dry clothes.
Another day, a hot day, a Friday. My mother would pick me up soon to return to the Santa Ana house. I played with kids in the neighborhood. We turned on a sprinkler and ran around in it. I came back just in time to see my mother pull up into the driveway. She wasn’t too happy, but I was. I changed into warm, dry clothes.
Tim, a lovely boy, taught me to shoot free throws under a light drizzle. I had a crush on him. He was sweet. I perfected my 12-year-old’s free throw shot. We laughed together. I returned home and changed into warm, dry clothes.
When I was in college, I had another friend who loved the rain. As soon as there was a downpour, we’d call each other. Meet halfway between her apartment and mine. We’d walk, and talk. And I would come back, and change into warm, dry clothes.
Oh, water.
narinda heng 