The sky was cloudy and unilluminated. Trees danced in their own rhythm and rustled as endless leaves fluttered down, indicating that the summer’s warmth was gone and the season was yet again changing. It was midday, but nightfall was rapidly approaching, like a predator looming over its prey. The familiar smell of rain lingered heavily in the air, threatening to make the atmosphere open up and let the miserable emotions of the world ripple onto the broken pavement.
I stood in the midst of it, a rather solemn look resting on my face as I stared upwards. The sky felt as though it was looking down on me, the smoky gray clouds just ready to devour me whole. It was intimidating. It felt like an inescapable force plotting my downfall. My shaking hands were stuffed into the pockets of my jeans and the image of my mother came to me.
I recalled her loving gloomy days like these and how she often mentioned there was such beauty in the world when it wasn’t just the sun shining all of the time. Most people hated dark and rainy days, but my mother loved them. She practically craved them, as if she was a child desperate for her toy.
When I was younger, I would watch from the old window. Brief clouds of fog from my breath would appear as I saw my mother stand out on the porch and gaze up at the sky with a far, distant look. Her hazel eyes would stare off and then gleam with excitement as the rain began to drop one by one and then all at once. Every wrinkle in her face showed as she broke out into a wide smile and opened her arms, happily welcoming the rain. She would be drenched in seconds, her baggy clothes clutching to her thin body. I shivered, the sight frightening, yet remarkably breathtaking.