My Favourite Thing

It pounds against windows, slowly at first. The noise that makes you guess whether it is really happening. Then there’s another drop, and another. And yes, it’s happening. Looking out of the window the clouds are dark and grey and hanging low and then you realise that this was why the room had taken a dark turn.

More successive drops hit the window and trickle down slowly. Then they can be heard hitting the pavement. Hard. And getting heavier.

The wind blows and changes its direction and anybody outside is guaranteed to get wet, whether they are armed with umbrellas or not. It gets heavier still and batters the window relentlessly. It forms swelling puddles that ripple as they are attacked by a the continual downpour. The sound becomes almost like white noise. A calming backdrop to life.

And then it stops.

The water still continues its way down the window. Slower without the aid of other drops falling and joining them in their descent.

Puddles ripple occasionally with the final drops that fall from leaves and branches.

The sun starts to bleed its way through the brightening grey cloud. The beginning signs that it’s safe to go outside again and stay dry.

And  outside is an onslaught of new smells and sights. Grass smells fresher and the puddles gleam up invitingly. They splash slightly when you walk by them and the inner child in you sees the big puddle up ahead and wants to jump in. You do. You regret it when you realise that your shoes are slightly damp, but a part also thinks it was worth it.

There’s the odd brief shower every time you walking under a tree and a gust of wind coincide. But the little jewels of water give the trees new life. The risk of getting drastically splashed by puddles near kerbs lowers, but you still avoid veering too close to the edge.

Slowly the ground dries in patches and the puddles. But the light catches them regardless of the state they are in. Reflects life in them in mirrored snapshots.

Then just when the world seems dry again the grey clouds roll in quick and dark. And the inevitable downpour starts. And your only option is to get soaked through and walk while listening to the pounding on the pavement and the trickling down the leaves, drainpipes and rooftops. You take notice of the way drops sit on flowers in gardens, how they seem to create their own glisten and reflect a light that in that moment seems absent.

And then it stops again and the cycle repeats itself. Damp clothing and dripping hair is the price to pay  but as the water slowly evaporates again you think it’s worth it.

The only thing that looks better than a city in the rain is the way it looks just after.

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Sophie, twenty-something, avid reader, writer, really good at watching whole seasons of TV shows in one weekend and using 10 words where 5 will do, overzealous user of the ellipsis and parentheses, starts too many sentences with ‘and’ and ‘so’, living in a continual state of Wanderlust.

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