I am beckoned.
It comes to me, rushing,
A noise of perfect, pattering percussion
To match my own
racing, pounding heart.
They say those days
are when you stay inside
and wait out the storm;
when dogs hide under the bed.
But I am called to stand in the street
arms outstretched, nose pointing skyward
until the water quenches my parched soul.
I am Gene Kelly in my cousins’ attic
as I watched him, umbrella in hand,
unstopped by the torrent soaking him.
I am Liesl von Trapp
whom I’ve watched countless times
sneak back into the house, sopping wet.
And I remember
melted paper stars
and dissolved sugar
on that one Halloween night
when I decided that maybe
dancing alone is better;
The hours of trying to sleep
when imagined ghosts kept me awake
and my only shield was the sound of rain
to block the noise of my own thoughts;
And the smell of petrichor,
of aftermath,
the way my friend pressed a rock into my hands
and told me I could smell the rain,
keep it with me,
because this rock would smell like “after”
forever.
And when the downpour comes,
and when the streets become rivers,
and the canals overflow,
and the waterfalls roar with reinvigorated ferocity,
Socks wet,
hair dripping,
I dance.
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