Rain-- A Short Story By Maddie Fenster

By Maddie Fenster

You always loved the rain. Me, I’d never really seen the appeal of it. Not that there’s

anything wrong with sitting at the fireplace, listening to the sound of raindrops on the

ceiling while you cuddled up with a mug of cocoa... I liked that just as much as you did. I

could never like running around in the rain the way that you could, I could never let myself

be that free. I was obsessed with umbrellas. You always thought that was weird, that I would

have an umbrella in my car even during summer. I said I was just being prepared. You said I

was paranoid.

You loved nothing more than running around in the rain, arms out, chin up, staring

up at the sky like you were daring God to make it rain harder. Sometimes when the thunder

clapped, you would yell back, more of a squeal than a yell, something excited and happy like

a child witnessing fireworks for the first time.

You loved the water. You’d slip into class, several minutes late, with drops of water

clinging to your skin and your hair damp and stringy and you wouldn’t give a fuck, you’d

leave wet footprints wherever you walked and soggy imprints on my clothes and I always

thought that was weird. You loved the rain so much, and you would tell anyone who’d listen

how God was sending you kisses from the sky. I didn’t get that, either, but I didn’t want to

tell you, I’d just grumble something incoherent about how I’d stay inside because I didn’t

want to get wet. I should’ve followed you, more, gone out into the rain.

You and I were walking, one time, I don’t remember where to or from but we were

walking. It was raining, I was complaining because there were puddled on the sidewalk and

water was getting inside my shoes, my socks were wet and squelched when I stepped. You

told me to suck it up, we’d be home soon. There was room under my umbrella, I said, you

were getting wet. You said you didn’t mind, the sky was your friend. You said that a lot of

things were your friend.

You were humming a song, something happy, and all of a sudden it started raining

harder and you broke into a sprint, trying to take in as much rain as you could. I know

because I asked you, why are you running, and all you did was ask a question. You know

when you’re driving and you’re at a stop light and there’s barely any water on the windshield

so you turn off the wipers, but then all of a sudden you’re moving and there’s so much water

and you can’t see anything?

You said that like you expected me to know what you were saying, and I suppose I

did know what you were saying, but all I said was that I never turned off the windshield

wipers.

You shrugged and started running again, and when I caught up to you you were

sitting on the ground, criss-cross applesauce. When I was in Kindergarten, my teacher had a

rug in the middle of the classroom that looked like a garden. It was divided into squares,

some with flowers on them, some with grass, and some with dirt. I don’t know why, but you

reminded me of that rug. In the middle of the sidewalk, your jeans soaked through from the

puddle you were sitting in.

You stared up at me and I couldn’t tell if there were tears or raindrops on your

cheeks.

You okay? I asked.

You said you stepped on a worm.

You didn’t understand that the rain would bring you so much happiness but bring so

much torment to that worm, that worm that definitely didn’t feel anything and probably died

a more peaceful death than he would’ve if you’d stepped an inch to your left, but you didn’t

see it that way.

You thought that the rain had given something to you and then taken it away, you

didn’t understand when I said it was just a worm.

You are just a human, you said. We’re all just humans.

You were right, I realized. We are all just human.

I didn’t like the rain. I didn’t hate it, but I didn’t like it.

Now I hate the rain. I guess that actually, I hate that you loved it, I hate that I

wouldn’t turn off my windshield wipers because I knew the rain would collect again on the

glass as soon as I started going and I hate that you wouldn’t because you wanted to watch as

much water fall in front of you as you could and you turned off your windshield wipers.

I guess it’s not the worst thing in the world, though, that the last thing you saw was

the rain. I guess it’s not the worst thing in the world that the last thing you did was stop to

watch the raindrops chase each other down your windshield, before they collected into a

sheet of shapeless crystal that blurred everything in front of you. There are worst last things

to see.