Only the Rain

There is no better sound, nothing more soothing to me, than the rain.

It starts slowly, a drip here, a drop there. Tiny overtures foretelling the coming of grander things. It’s as if the skies are tuning their instruments, waiting in anticipation to begin, allowing a whisper to escape. 

But then, all of a sudden it comes down flowing in torrents. The mass of little drops creating the most eloquent of sounds, it’s as if a symphony has begun to play outside my window. There’s even a crescendo that explodes into life, but then the sweet hum of the melody coos and wanes beyond it, slowly overtaking it. The crescendo withers and the soft melody of the percussive droplets blanket the world.  

It’s steady now, a slow beat of the drops, the tune so familiar, like velvet caressing the ears. A chill lingers in the air as the sound dips, drops, and splashes. Soothing but playful, gentle yet crisp, the rain speaks a language that few can hear. There’s an eery delight that fills the air, the same comfort found in a melancholy novel. It’s a tepid sweetness that encases the mind when hearing the pitter patter of raindrops.

A duality emerges from it’s symphonic call. It invites you to either drench yourself in it’s labours, to feel the last touch of the drops as they find their way onto your skin. Or you drawn to cradle yourself in comfort, protected by any means, and merely hear what the rain has to say from a distance, blanket-wrapped and tea in hand.

Their’s a fondness I feel for this ever-common precipitation. It feels like home.

Just a few words on my favourite kind of day. Be good to yourselves.

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