by Jenny Lynn Ferguson (Dancing~Rain~Deception)
It was such a small thing, walking in the rain with you, our hoods pulled up to keep our hair somewhat dry, our feet skipping and stomping through puddles heedless of any threat of a cold or even pneumonia. All that mattered was joy and fun and a slice of recaptured childhood.
I sang songs about rain while you laughed and sometimes sang along, especially during the most iconic one. I even found a lamp post to perch on, though it was much harder than Gene Kelly made it look. I was bold since there was no one but us on that normally busy campus, kicking my way through puddles in an approximation of good dancing, listening to you laugh as we wasted our afternoon on a walk in the rain rather than French verbs.
Was it your idea or mine to go out walking in the rain that day? Was it that day that cemented our friendship forever with a shared love for a little piece of petrichor in the middle of the normal Abilene heat? Or was it a million other days that showed us we were two peas in a pod brought together impossibly by a strange fit of divine intervention or fate or chance?
I don’t think back to that day every time it rains. Nor do those songs remind me of clinging boldly to a lamp post or running shrieking through puddles like the children we had sometimes been. But on certain days when the skies are overcast or a song pops into my head of its own accord, I hear the ghost of your laughter passing through trees heavy with rain, echoing over sidewalks full of puddles ripe for jumping and splashing. And then I miss you, a sweet kind of pain that never really goes away, nor would I want it to. A pain that reminds me just how precious time is, how fleeting, and yet how one seemingly inconsequential moment of spinning around in the rain while holding my best friend’s hand can become crystallized and perfect even as my memory tricks me into remembering things that might not have happened and forgetting the things that did.
I think it was your idea to go walking rather than study. And I think I loved you first in that moment when I realized that someone else loved the possibility of dancing in the rain and jumping in puddles just as much as I did. Maybe that’s not true; maybe that’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Truth and fact don’t matter nearly as much as that memory of a rain-scented world and the echo of two girls singing, their feet splashing through puddles as they danced.
Now I’d rather recapture that memory, small and solitary and perfect, one where you were still alive and bright and vibrant and the best friend I could ever ask for.
It was such a small thing, walking in the rain with you, our hoods pulled up to keep our hair somewhat dry, our feet skipping and stomping through puddles heedless of any threat of a cold or even pneumonia. All that mattered was joy and fun and a slice of recaptured childhood.
I sang songs about rain while you laughed and sometimes sang along, especially during the most iconic one. I even found a lamp post to perch on, though it was much harder than Gene Kelly made it look. I was bold since there was no one but us on that normally busy campus, kicking my way through puddles in an approximation of good dancing, listening to you laugh as we wasted our afternoon on a walk in the rain rather than French verbs.
Was it your idea or mine to go out walking in the rain that day? Was it that day that cemented our friendship forever with a shared love for a little piece of petrichor in the middle of the normal Abilene heat? Or was it a million other days that showed us we were two peas in a pod brought together impossibly by a strange fit of divine intervention or fate or chance?
I don’t think back to that day every time it rains. Nor do those songs remind me of clinging boldly to a lamp post or running shrieking through puddles like the children we had sometimes been. But on certain days when the skies are overcast or a song pops into my head of its own accord, I hear the ghost of your laughter passing through trees heavy with rain, echoing over sidewalks full of puddles ripe for jumping and splashing. And then I miss you, a sweet kind of pain that never really goes away, nor would I want it to. A pain that reminds me just how precious time is, how fleeting, and yet how one seemingly inconsequential moment of spinning around in the rain while holding my best friend’s hand can become crystallized and perfect even as my memory tricks me into remembering things that might not have happened and forgetting the things that did.
I think it was your idea to go walking rather than study. And I think I loved you first in that moment when I realized that someone else loved the possibility of dancing in the rain and jumping in puddles just as much as I did. Maybe that’s not true; maybe that’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Truth and fact don’t matter nearly as much as that memory of a rain-scented world and the echo of two girls singing, their feet splashing through puddles as they danced.
Now I’d rather recapture that memory, small and solitary and perfect, one where you were still alive and bright and vibrant and the best friend I could ever ask for.