My first kiss was in the rain.
Or at least, that’s what I tell people.
It definitely beats the story of his second-hand couch upstairs, with
Transformers playing in the background.
It was raining the first time I said, “I love you.”
It
was raining.
We were just inside at the time.
It was just starting to rain when I said, “Goodbye.”
Not “Goodbye” as in, “Catch ya later!” or “See you around.”
A real, rock-solid, never-going-to-see-you-again Goodbye.
It was drizzling.
I remember being frustrated because the sky couldn’t even match what my eyes were producing.
There’s something about rain that makes memories.
You’re more likely to remember the game you won by sliding through the mud for that last goal, home run, touchdown, whatever.
My mom remembers the years by, ‘That’s the year it almost flooded,” and “That’s the year everything died. No rain at all.”
Nobody remembers the wedding when the sun was shining perfectly.
But there will always be that one backyard ceremony where,
against all odds,
it started pouring down right after the “I do”s.
Everyone ran inside, holding programs over their heads.
The bride’s dress was completely ruined, but she was laughing,
because all she could think about was the grin on his face when they were pronounced “man and wife.”
It may have something to do with how it just
happens.
You wake up one morning thinking it’s just another day, but oh,
it’s raining!
It’s a pain because you still haven’t bought those rain boots you’ve been eyeing at Target,
and none of your school bags are actually water-proof,
but somehow,
it usually all works itself out anyway.
It’s kind of like—the world can be totally wrong, absolutely chaotic,
but then it rains.
When everything is failing,
when you just need something to keep on going,
there it is.
There’s always one thing that can just take care of itself.
Of course, I may simply be biased because I get so much inspiration when it’s raining.
And after all,
my first real kiss was in the rain.
