Since I can remember I have always been fascinated with rain; I’m not quite sure what it was that has drawn me to it. Maybe, it was a rainy nine months while my mother carried me and I find a subconscious comfort in gray skies and thick air.

Maybe it was the relief rain brought. On scorching days, you could see the steam rise as the first few drops made contact with hot pavement. The cloak of fragrant mist wrapped itself all around you, ticking each sense. Moist clothing cooled warm skin and soothed hot sunburn. Or when I really didn’t feel like going out to gym that day. The wet grass and muddy fields brought a day of lazy checkers and long sighs. It could have been how the vegetation danced after rainfall finally quenched their extended thirst. Colors bounced and played between rehydrated petals and foliage.

What if it was the fascinating distortion? Wet carpets of water reflected stop lights and high beams around washed out street corners; Puddles were windows into a mirrored world where all was dull and blurred. I remember I’d squint my eyes from the back seat forcing gloomy lights to stretch and wave. The raindrops that scaled windows created a concave looking glass; an insight into another dimension. Blades of grass were bedazzled with liquid crystals after stormy nights, catching even the slightest glimpse of light. Even behind sheets of rain, tears and raindrops merge together; one is unable to tell them apart.

Maybe its the overall essence of a rainy day. Sometimes everyone needs a day full of sighs and self pity. You curl up in warm blankets and watch an entire season of “How I Met Your Mother”. A day where comforting hugs and kisses become the slightest bit more meaningful. The universal wardrobe is messy buns and oversized sweatshirts, and it seems every eye droops with crusted corners. Every stomach harbors a monster screaming for large bowls of creamy mac n’ cheese and sad songs seem to jump to the top of your playlist.
It could have possibly been the sound. Whether the light puddering of a shower or the heavy smacks of a down pour, rain sounds beautiful. Each raindrop has a voice of it’s own; creating a symphony when mixed and combined. Sharp tings on old rusted tin cans. Gentle taps on window sills. Raindrops rattle over metal air conditioners; plops into milk glasses forgotten in the panicked retrieval of all items outside.

What if it was the tranquility of a rain storm? That moment of pure silence after the last raindrop has fallen. Time has stopped. Nothing dares to move. No signs of life. The birds are silent and the animals have yet to move about and no one is mowing their lawns or yanking out stubborn dandelions, no children are splashing in puddles or drawing misshapen faces and flowers in sidewalk chalk. Just silence. The world stops and takes in the beauty as the storm clouds slowly part and the smiling sun peaks through. Even if it is only for a few minutes, a second even, everything is at peace.

I think the reason why I am so drawn to rainy days is because of the memories I recall with each rolling black storm cloud. As blades of grass and creaky rooftops are drenched in cool droplets, my memories are stirred, whirling around in my head; vivid and vibrant. My family would drive to the local movie store and rent five or six DVD’s. It didn't really matter if it was a never before seen movie or we could recite every line like prayers. The large pizza box we picked up always burned the tops of my thighs as it sat in my lap on the ride home. We packed our oversized couch with pillows and blankets; sitting close to each other to share warmth and pizza crust.

I remember I used to be afraid of the thunder. Frozen in fear by the vicious roars. Once I mustered up the courage to move, I’d come barreling into my parent’s room and snuggle right up between them. We all would lay there talking to each other about nothing; nonsense from that day. Asking questions about life that was far beyond my years, how to make grandpa’s cheesy baked macaroni, and listing off ideas for my birthday six months in advance. The unorganized words would flow from my mouth until I finally fell silent; drifting asleep in the crook in my parent’s arm. It turned into almost a ritual. Every night, to this day, my mother and I will lay in her bed with the window open. We lay all night listening; the blanket right under our nose. Consumed by the warmth and white noise. Completely at peace; savoring each raindrop. Those cherished memories are what make long rainy days that much sweeter.