In which the rain falls, falls, falls

I love the rain. Who in their right mind wouldn't (to which you answer, people with a paralyzing fear of water, Kathleen.) I love the rain because of the sounds that come along with it. All the swishes from cars barreling through the puddles that collect in overflowing gutters. The smack! of boots along the sidewalk as they hit the puddles with satisfying force. There are drips and drops and dribbles. The sounds of water as it spills from the gutters and through the eaves troughs, into the grass at the bottom of the garden. The squish of the flooded earth as you walk barefoot through grass. And worms. Squishy worms between your toes. All gooey and... Sorry, what was I saying?

And the puddle jumping. Oh lord, how I love puddle jumping! My now-fiance thought I was mad when we were in the early days of our courtship, spring in Southern Alberta, we would walk to McDonald's to get a thing of fries and an Oreo McFlurry. There were always puddles along the pathway and despite my shoes, open-toed or full of holes, I had to splash in them. Keep in mind, I was already nearly 22 at the time. I still love puddle jumping. The best part is that every so often he lets go and puddle jumps with me like a boss.

There's something wonderful about the rain. I've always loved it. Even when I was a little girl, I was all over escaping out into the rain when the weather was miserable. Our home was tucked in a mountain, so the heavy cloud layer created this mist all throughout the woods that we would play in as kids. It was magical in the rain. The smell of the damp earth and pine needles is still the single greatest thing I can breathe in. In so many ways,  feel closer to the earth. It's a spiritual feeling that the rain brings out in you.

And then, and then your imagination takes over. And while you're breathing deep and feeling your body become one with nature, you remember that urban legend about the kid that inhaled the pine needle and then six months later developed a serious chest infection and when they took the x-ray the doctor discovered a small pine tree sprouting out of their lung tissue.

That might ruin the mood a bit, but let's face it, the beauty of the rain, melded with the awesomeness of having a pine tree growing in your lung would certainly more than make up for the intensive hospital stay and weeks of rehabilitation.

Ghosts come out in the rain. Ghosts of little girls and boys who puddle splashed in better days. Ghosts of gumboots and yellow rain jackets. Ghosts love the rain as much as I do, because in the rain they take shape; they find place in the mist and fill the voids left by the living. The living don't go out in the rain and the mist. There is no place for them, being so close to god and earth. The living can't handle the pressure of it all.

And in the days of rain, where there are no breaks in clouds or wind, and the gutters spill forth the contents of their bowels, all discarded Big Gulp cups and old straws, that is when the ghosts retreat. They see the way they flood the world with their memories. Memories are better left to the early days of rain, paper boats instead of arks; raincoats instead of life jackets.  There is no room for ghosts in the storms, even if they love the clouds and puddles.

No room for ghosts here.