As I threw the pillow off my face and tried to accustom my eyes to the morning light, I thought to myself “hmm rain came a little late this year”. Instead of the usual buzzing of the overworked aircon, there was the sound of drizzle slowly turning into a heavy shower. I was overjoyed, disappointed rain only came now, but overjoyed. Filled with good vibes and overflowing desire to nurse a cup of coffee while reading a novel I stormed out of the room to tell my mom of the rain as if she didn’t already know. Turns out, it has been raining for the past weeks she told me.
Where was I for the past weeks? I felt as if I was tied to my bed trapped in my dreams in a comatose. I missed the first rain of May, same way I missed a once in a lifetime concert, a weekend of sand and sun, and what was to be the best summer of my existence, all in a span of two months. How that happened, I have not the smallest inkling.
The first rain of May isn’t just a normal downpour. It doesn’t only cue in a new season, it signals the end of summer and the dawning of classes. Whether I spent my past first-rain-of-mays cuddled up in a fat comforter reading Little Women, or dancing in the rain with my cousins in Southville, or dreaming my life away by the bay window, I spent them all knowing that it is the first rain of May. And that it might bring with it’s first few drops something to look forward to, or something painful, nevertheless something new.
I missed the first rain of May without knowing that it has already passed. I know I dwelt on the thought more than I should. But I can’t help but feel as if it means more to it than say, negligence.
Next week I’ll be in LB, as a visitor and no longer as a student. I didn’t think it would hurt this much, but this change is finally starting to sink in. It’s a completely different story. But I just thought, that if I didn’t miss the rain, it would have signaled something else than the dawn of classes and would’ve cause another downpour below my big brown gaze.