Pitter-patter

.

I once loved the rain.

And I loved the memories it evoked. I remember my childhood, me wrapped in blankets, basking in the warmth and comfort the rain brought as the pitter-patter lulled me to sleep. Some other times, I would look at the drops which managed to kiss the windowsills as I drink my cup of hot chocolate, speculating on such a wonder of nature.

Other times, I write poems about it. Sometimes, I am not alone in the writing.

My fascination with rain took a drastic turn as my life progressed and was distorted by both traumatic and painful experiences I only wish to forget so I could move on.

In all those times, I feared the rain, and the thunder (for it was too loud to keep my secret hurts) and the lightning (for it can never hide the truth). In those times, I wished it would never rain, for it meant another person's pain, suffering...tears.

And now, as I experienced another downpour, this time relatively safe in the shelter of our home, I can not help but remember EVERYTHING that happened yesterday, and the Saturday before that. Of how the rain howled blood and swallowed the wails of so many victims from a foreign bus held hostage because there are still victims of negative circumstances.

Whatever is being said and done, I will still blame the situation, and never the person.


And how can I forget my own demise, as I looked up the forest dappled sky, swallowing both rain and sweat as I frantically sauntered back from a hilly slope of Cantipla for another bout of our reforestation caravan. The rain showed me no mercy and drenched me completely, and I was lucky enough to develop a common sense to bring additional clothes on this trip, or I'll end up soaking the car seat.

And the experience made me realize what, exactly, we are fighting for. Made me remember why we even bother.

The trees grow lovelier when graced by the rain.

After all is said and done, the pitter-patters on my windowsill remain a bringer of luck.

Such is the wonder of life.

Let's all begin anew.


.