Perforated Sky

  Rain

I have a complicated relationship with rain. It’s not the rain itself I dislike—it’s the aftermath. The discomfort of cold, damp clothes clinging to my skin when I still have places to be. Wet feet trigger a kind of quiet anxiety in me, like I’ve lost control of the day before it even starts.

Walking into work soaked, knowing I’ll spend hours shivering under the hum of an overactive air conditioner—it’s not romantic, it’s just uncomfortable. Especially in summer, when the chill inside contrasts so sharply with the heat outdoors. I try to be practical and keep a change of clothes at work, but lately, all that’s left in the stash are funeral clothes. Let’s just say polyester pants and a crepe blouse don’t exactly reflect who I am anymore.

Oddly enough, that’s probably the only thing I have in common with Bella Swan—she wasn’t a fan of cold and wet either. That, and I’ve always been Team Edward.

When I was a child, I walked to school in all kinds of weather. I had one of those clear bubble umbrellas—the kind that makes you feel like you're inside your own world. I don’t remember the details of my raincoat—it was probably a Raggedy Ann hand-me-down from my sister—but I remember the galoshes. Those floppy rubber boots that went over your shoes, trapping them inside like quicksand. You needed a crowbar—or a strong parent—to pull them back out. I’d carefully avoid stepping on the earthworms littering the sidewalk and hope none of the neighborhood boys thought it would be funny to fling one at me.

In my twenties, I drove a 1983 CJ7 Jeep. I still have it, actually. Back then, I’d take the hard top off in April and leave it off until fall. Putting it on and off was a production, so I avoided it. If it rained, I’d slap on the hard doors and a bikini top—it kept me dry enough. I kept a cooler in the back packed with dry clothes just in case. If a storm hit, I’d either drive fast and laugh through it or pull into a car wash to wait it out. Back then, being cold and wet just felt like part of the adventure.

I’ve always been a rain walker—but the conditions have to be just right. Not a downpour or a storm, but a soft, steady rain that invites you outside. I love to sit on the porch and watch it come in, feeling the wind blow droplets onto my skin. There’s something so soothing about watching rain through a window, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea in hand and a good book nearby. If it’s nearing dusk, I’ll light candles and listen to the melody of raindrops on the metal roof. It can lull me to sleep in minutes.

But being in the rain—that’s something else entirely. It’s cleansing. Reviving. When I’m outside and the first few drops begin to fall, it feels like a secret between me and the sky—a quiet invitation. I wait. And then, when it finally starts falling in earnest, soft and rhythmic, I kick off my shoes, take off my glasses, and walk. I don’t mind the dirt. I don’t even mind the mud. The messier the better—it reminds me I’m alive.

My favorite rain comes after the storm. Slow and steady, with steam rising from the ground like breath. The air is thick and hot, the rain is cool, and the contrast creates this almost electric feeling. I could stay outside forever, soaking it in.

That childlike joy in the rain never really left me. Now, I share it with my grandson. I’ll knock on his door and ask, “Want to come play in the rain?” And off we go, jumping in puddles, slipping, sliding, and giggling until our cheeks hurt. He’s even been known to lay right down in the mud and kick his feet in pure delight. I’m not quite that brave—but I cheer him on.

Even when it’s not raining, we find the lingering puddles. And yes, we jump in them—shoes and all.

I tell him the rain comes from holes in the sky. “Perforated sky,” I call it. He’s three, and he believes me. One day, when he’s older and we’re lying in the grass staring up at the clouds, I’ll tell him the real story—about clouds and storms and the science of it all. But for now, this simple, magical version is enough.