I remember the days of childhood, where it was as if God herself opened the sky to mourn her greatest loss. When there were no spaces between the raindrops and it fell so heavy you could feel the weight of her sorrow. Yet in her sorrow, there was also joy. The wonder of the rain, inescapable, her call thunderous to play in the puddles of her tears. To make believe the power a child held in the wind and the water and the darkened sky, clouds rolling swiftly over the dampened canvas of the heavens. To twirl and dance in the fray of the elements, so powerful you could feel it deep in your chest, crying out to the heart pounding behind your bones. What had she lost to cause her such pain? I can't remember a rain like that since I was small. Perhaps she cried for me. Perhaps she cried for all the children who would someday grow to know the pain of age. Perhaps she cried for the children who were still small yet already knew pain far beyond their years. Perhaps she cried because she could see me now. She cried for my struggles, but still she gave me the joy a child needs, to stock up for the long, darkened years ahead where things are less vibrant, less wonderous, less made for dreaming. I may be dreamless now, but I will always remember, and I will thank her for the sorrow she gave as an act of kindness.

Today, I spend my days waiting for the sun. But I try to remember that even when he is beyond the clouds, the rain still watches over me. When I need her, even now that I am grown, she will still bathe me with her tears and make me new, restoring my hope as I continue on my lifelong quest to find the sun. I think maybe, despite the time I spent growing in the darkness, I was made for the light.
© Sephe Rose