See, it’s a different sort of rain. The rain seven hours away always begins loud, brash, and bold. It wants you to notice. It wants you to pay attention. The clouds command your attention, but they’re such a hazy gray, you take notice anyway. There is often no sun to cheer you, but wind to remind you that there can be no rain without its lover, the wind.
Everyone bows their head, most hoping their glasses won’t get smeary and teary eyed. This almost never works. Some girls wear rain boots, and others still wear thread bare sandals and one wonders how they pull if off when there’s mud everywhere.
The sun sets and the rain reflects light, droplets of light that splatter all over the pavement.
The best kind of rain though, is at night. You’re at your computer, when a whisper begins outside your door. A soft whisper really, mostly unsuspecting. You open the door and at first it’s so dark that you wonder what that whispering sound is. You can’t always smell the rain, but it whispers instead. You can’t make out the words, or the stories, but you can hear it. The glow from the streetlamp gives the rain such a surreal, warm yellow glow. Droplets of light that disappear when they fall to the pavement. Thunder lets out a low hum, and it should be frightening, but it isn’t. The wind is soft, only a tickle of air against your face really. You can feel the droplets when the wind whispers through, but it isn’t annoying or smearing your glasses. Simply a gentle reminder that rain and wind are often lovers or friends in Denton. You lean against the doorway, and the smell hits you oh so slowly. It’s strange, normally the smell hits your nostrils first. A stray thought wonders if you’re losing your sense of smell. You’re not though, you’ll smell the onslaught of rain in the morning after conveniently forgetting your umbrella in the car.
The smell pools around you, the sound pools around you, even the vision of rain itself looms, never quite hitting your senses, never quite an onslaught like it was earlier. The rain whispers at night in Denton, such stories does it whisper. I cannot fathom the voices, I cannot quite hear the tales. But I hear the gentle whisper, the soft tickle of wind, and I see the droplets of light that disappear on their way towards the pavement. The rain does not admonish you for your lack of depth, for your lack of deciphering its many, many stories. The low thrum of thunder, lightening blooms in the distance, and you are aware of everything and nothing. It is a soft feeling, a soft fathomless feeling you cannot put words to. Not surreal, but deeper, emotionless, but filled in such words as to be wordless. The soft spray of water nuzzles your skin, and the wind picks up. You turn away, closing the door. You linger at the doorknob, as you shut the heavy door. You aren’t quite sure what you feel, you never will be. It felt so close to home, and yet…that sort of rain can never be contained.