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Write about rain. Is it a warm summer shower or a
heavy stormy downpour? Are you indoors or outside, all soaked through? Write about a
character if you’d like.
She always loved rain. Her girlfriends would complain
about it – can’t go out under this downpour, puddles outside leaving
unattractive splashes on freshly cleaned tights or fashionable trousers, the
gray sky making them depressed. She’d stay by her window and watch the
silver droplets making their way down. The courtyard would rapidly empty out,
only a rare babushka hurrying home, with avoska (*) filled with groceries under a rugged umbrella, which no doubt served her for the better half of her long life. Or a
couple of young guys jumping over the puddles, rushing towards the closest roof. The children’s
playground, abandoned only in extreme cold days of Siberian winters, otherwise always
bursting with children’s voices, now becoming deserted. Pigeons and a few
pretty doves curling under the roof of the green pigeon-loft built by her
neighbor, ever cheerful uncle Vanya who moved out years ago, as he started a
new family, but his birds were still here, and he’d come to visit them daily. Watching
the rain was one of her favorite things on earth to do. She couldn’t help but smile, feeling the warmth spreading in the chest area where
she thought her soul lived, reaching everything around it with its sunny rays.
Rain was the secret language that she understood and spoke. Rain was the
universe’s way of saying that everything was well.
He always loved rain. If it caught him on the road
which happened a lot in stormy Midwest springs in his many years working in
factories, he’d stop his car on the shoulder of a narrow country road just
to watch the rain. If he was driving in the city, he’d park in the parking lot of
the nearest mall near Barnes and Nobles where he loved spending evenings
reading or writing, and watch how the droplets were making their way down the
car window. The streets were rapidly becoming deserted. Rare shoppers were
rushing to their cars, and soon he’d hear the splashing sound from under the
rolling tires. He’d stay in his car in silence, with the engine turned off, and
listen for the last few drops, as if the rain was telling him a story. There were
always ellipses at the end of rain stories, which left him feeling refreshed
and hopeful. It was the rain that suggested to him to use ellipses abundantly in his prose. He felt all-embracing peace watching the world
getting a shower, making a pause in the busy life, postponing all the chores
which seemed unnecessary, or at least not as necessary as being quiet. Rain had
the ability to make him feel rested and content, as if the garden inside of his
being was receiving a long needed watering. The quiet world, sparkling with
raindrops, was telling him that everything was well.
(*) avoska – net shopping bag or string bag, popular
in Soviet times, especially with the elders
* * *
Biographical, perhaps? Interesting way to tie two seemingly distant characters together.
ReplyDeleteI love this piece ... incredibly touching and magical.
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