Ponderous Puddles

It rain a lot, here. Every day we are sent scurrying from our seats outside, rushing to huddle impatiently in the covered spaces between walls. Every day, always near noon.

Today is like those days before, but we've prepared this time. It's odd, really. Our time spent in this climate has taught us things, like how to read the weather. Once we had to look at the sky to see what was coming, tracing the direction of the wind with our fingers to see if it would bring the clouds our way or not.

Now we have learned to read the light.

At breakfast when we look out the window we can say with certainty whether rain will fall later, no need to see the sky. There's a certain quality to the light streaming into the windows, something that we know portents rain. We've become mystics, oracles, sages.

This day was like that. We read the signs in the morning, and have properly prepared for the rain now falling heavily. We knew to get our cups to go, properly lidded so that nothing is spilled and we flee the rain. We've worn shoes rather than sandals, and packed our bags minimally for quick escape.

But still we end up huddled in a covered corner, having dashed through the walkway busy with people with similar intentions. Some of us remain outside, uncaring of the splashes and soft mist that dampen the cuffs of our jeans. Others stand behind glass windows streaked with rain, looking out over the landscape and waiting for the sky to clear.

Why in does, it is a most unusual sort of clearing. It becomes almost suddenly a brilliant blue, and the dominates with its glow. But the rain still falls, misty now, but we still remain hidden in dry depths. The sun's radiance tempts us, but we know not all is safe yet; it is best to stand and wait.

Our eyes, though, are caught by a sight almost stranger than the sky: two children, shoes and shirts tossed aside, running through puddles and laughing. They chase each other through the warm rain, water streaming like happy tears down their faces and bodies, legs spattered with mud.

Eventually an adult, a parent or older sibling, maybe, dashes out, pants rolled up and footwear similarly left behind. She is not scornful or angry with the galloping children, but laughing with them. She joins in their game of chase.

We all wish to join, secretly, but do not. Instead, we clutch our books, bags, and paper cups tightly, sipping absentmindedly. Our socks and shoes remain affixed to our feet, and seem suddenly a bad decision.

The trio continues to laugh and play in the open spaces, dancing through the sunlight infused rain, breaking through the mirror-like puddles with muddy feet. We envy them, or at least I do.

The End

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