A Miracle

This is a little thingy starring Mai and Naru--stupid writing project. We had to write a thing about rain, and this was all I could come up with. In case it's hard to tell, the POV is Mai, Naru, Mai, Naru, etc until the last stanza. The italics are not a poem or anything, just awesome metaphors I came up with.

It is the soft tapping on my window that sings me to sleep.

The pattern is familiar. Drip, tst, drip, tst, drip, tst tst. This is the rain, falling from my windowsill to hit the metal wire screen. I close my eyes and listen to it. This is the reason the window is open. The cool breeze blows across my cheek, and the hard, steady beat of the storm is my lullaby.

It is the stream of cold that opens my eyes in the morning.

I am not quite awake when I leave my home. My eyes are on the ground, concentrating on all the different tasks I must accomplish today. I pay no attention to the cloudy sky, until something wet falls on my cheek. I look up, and beads of water are dropping from the sky. The wet smell of rain is fresh in the air. I breathe deeply, and feel the water run through my hair and down my face. It was a good start.

It is the perfect diamond I watch out the window.

I was so tired of my desk. Today was meant to be boring, I knew it. I rested my head on my hands and glanced out the window, and my breath caught. Raindrops were falling. The clouds had let just a bit of sun poke through, and it shone through the water. Tiny drops clung to the window, and, in the sunlight, they seemed more precious than gemstones. I wanted to take them home with me. For the rest of the day, I watched the rain.

It is the friend that, since childhood, has made me laugh.

I see children in the street, laughing. They pull down their hoods and splash in the puddles, ignoring their parents' protests. My brother and I loved the rain when we were young. Our parents wouldn't let us outside, but we would sit in the big window seat in the living room and watch. Sometimes, we would slip their eye and go out to the trees in our backyard. I loved running under the water-soaked trees.

It is the partner that holds you as you dance outside.

I couldn't help it. I only had a few hours of daylight left, and the clouds were turning black and threatening again. I went outside, behind my home, and raised arms. Rain embraced me. I spun, and rain spun me. I dipped, and rain caught me. I leaped, and rain guided me. I simply stood there, and rain stood with me. I laughed. The rain fell harder.

It is the crash and the strike that reminds you of power.

Late at night, the comforting drizzle has changed into a pounding storm. Lightening flashes. Thunder rolls. I know that, now, those same children playing in puddles are probably huddled into their mothers and fathers. They do not love the storms, but I do. I listen to it like a conductor. I cue for the crescendo, and focus on the underscore to hear it play just right. The percussion is steady, hard snare drums, snares off, playing fast and low. The low brass and the baritone saxophone play their deep note, and the trumpets respond with a brief call of triumph. Some say we are in the center of the storm, but to me, we are in the middle of the piece, and we aren't done yet. I hope there is an encore.

It is beautiful.

We each lie in our beds. We close our eyes, and we feel the cool, wet breeze blow into our rooms. We breath in and sigh. We loved the rain when we were little. When we had siblings and parents, they played with us and made the water beautiful. Now that we are alone, we try to tell ourselves that the memories it evokes are only happy ones. Neither of us believe this, but we can lie and feel good. We do not know that we feel the same way. We do not know that we could talk to each other and be free. We do not know that it would be the best thing for both of us.

We love each other and we hate each other. We love and hate the rain.