I like it when it rains after long spells of dust. I love the smell of soil as the first raindrops hit the ground. When the rains hit the soil, I always run downstairs to the living room, switch off the lights and draw the curtains. Then I stand by the window watching as the raindrops hit the ground and bounce back. At such times, I let my mind take a tour into the days that have gone by. I remember the sound of the raindrops hitting my mother’s roof with nostalgia. I almost wish this house was without a ceiling so I could watch and listen to the rain at the same time. Soon hails start falling and I can almost hear my mother cursing while my sisters and I stretch our hands out of the window to catch the fattest hailstones. I still know that feeling of stepping on the white carpet of hailstones while mother warns us about catching pneumonia. (Ha haha). When you step on the white sheet of hailstones, you feel a numbness that shoots up your legs o your spine. I take a while before your feet become numb. But it’s never the serious numb, nothing a nice fire can’t cure in a matter of minutes if not seconds. I still love it when it rains stones.
Soon the hails stop and the rains become heavier. The beautiful smell disappears. I draw back the curtains and press the lights button. The lights have gone. The inside of the house gets darker as the rain outside gains momentum. A feeling of loneliness descends over me. I wonder how it could have been had there been one or two children and a husband perhaps. Maybe I wouldn’t be watching the rain right this moment. I can imagine how my daughter would be clinging to me right now, big scared eyes poring right into my own, tiny hands flung across my neck. Maybe we would be sleeping, or playing or quarreling. Ooh how I would love to quarrel about her not eating or her not sleeping when she should. Maybe I would be so exhausted with motherhood and would probably be in bed snoring through the rain.
If there was a baby or babies, I would be making them sour porridge right now. We would all be seated around a big flame as I narrate a story about my brother, their uncle. It is about how he would never drink rain water because someone told him that the water is just tears. You know, according to him, when it rained, it was the daughters of God who used to cry. So he would never drink the coldest purest water; how stupid.
If they were there, maybe we would be on the couch covered in a once white now brown duvet. I wouldn’t mind its change of color maybe, because with children, beddings have the ability to change color.
Maybe I can still get a surrogate mother to carry a child for me to last me through seasons like El Niño. Or maybe I should agree that I can’t.