Rain and Laughter

Rain poured greatly today. I was happy not to see children playing under the rain – it would’ve made me envious. I was in school as the drizzling leveled up to a downpour. At the time, we were having our room-to-room campaign. Such moist in the air brings the scent of nostalgia if not shoved down my throat.

  

My sweetest memory of a rainy day was at our old and original provincial house. Original because it went under construction to become the modern edifice it is now. More room to move, comfortable and perhaps considerably a mini-villa along the street towards the seductive nearby sea. And yet it was empty and soulless, at least for me.

  

Since it is newly built, I have no souvenir memory to revisit in that house. While the scent of wet air will always bring me back to our old house in Samar, I could never arrange a visit to our new house.

  

I remember waking to a rainy morning in Pambujan. I don’t know how old I was. It wasn’t dark nor was it a day for a Kapre and Tikbalang nuptial – as kids put it when it rained while the sun is high. The air was wet but wallowed with every taste of provincial life. The window was wide open, no metal bars or grills or mosquito nets barring it from the outside. The sand seemed the surface of a Sunkist orange as rain pummeled from our half-metal, half-nipa roofing. I sat right beside the wide open window as my Lola brought breakfast.

  

No high-end could compete with that meal. It was fried rice with egg bits, daing with vinegar and hot cocoa. The rain seems to contribute to its appeal and would’ve rendered me drooling uncontrollably. One of the best childhood memories I have. I ate with my bare hands, of course after washing them. I poured a few cocoa on the rice dipped Daing in the Vinegar. In between chews, I entertained myself with the ducks and its ducklings circling outside. 

   

After finishing the meal, there were kids around the same age I was who started going out of their house and dancing under the rain. I watched intently as they rolled across the ground chasing each other around. My cousin saw this and finished her meal as well. We ended up pleading to play outside in the rain to our parents – they allowed us but we should stay in front of our house and not on the paved road.

   

I went out, spread my arms, looked up and opened my mouth. I let rain water down my throat. Then I laughed as me and my cousin fooled around. A simple joy which is truly worth doing again and again. This made me love the rain more, it cleanses me, it hugs me wholly without regret, caresses my skin as it moves down the ground – it also makes me laugh.

But earlier, I held my umbrella against it - shielding myself from its hugs and kisses. Not for me, but at the thought of others seeing a tall guy acting like a child. Maybe what I miss most is laughing under the rain as I let it pour – free from gaining a bruised ego collected from looks and facial expressions of others. To be mature was to do what I did, but to be yourself, to be me, is to dance, play and sing under all the droplets of glory showered by the generous clouds.

   

What I want is to laugh in the rain.