Nothing More than Rain
There it is again. The sound of the rain on the trees. Not again. I cannot bear it again. I have to find something that will block it out. I do not want to go there again. That place of half remembered pain and shadowed thoughts. It is too much.
A radio hums and sputters in the background, the noise covering over the unwanted sounds from outside. I will deal with it all later.
The storm passes, the only reminder an occasional distant rumble of thunder. Life is easier now, my memories sent scurrying back to the dark corners where I had sent them long ago. Go away, you are not wanted here!
But just one week later the sound returns, and with it the memories. Heavy and insistent they pound at the door of my mind, demanding attention and begging for relief. But how could I possibly answer? How can I possibly deal with the storm of emotion that I know will accompany them? No, they must remain locked away, until the next rainstorm brings the dreaded sound of pattering droplets.
Wait. How long must this continue? Why should I have to keep fighting against the lingering shadows and waiting for a relief that I know will never come? Change can happen, but it needs an opening, a helping hand.
The sound of the droplets returns once again. Splattering against the roof in maddening waves, but now I turn on music for another reason. Now I turn it on to make it blend with the sound of the storm pounding down outside. It is soft music, floating along through the air and blending with the rhythm of raindrops. As I listen I repeat in my head how good the rain is for the farmers. The farmers who own little white houses with green shutters and towering red barns. This is their saviour from the drought, from the debt of failed crops.
The storm passes and I breathe a sigh of relief. The rain is still uncomfortable, but I am still sane. I can still function.
Again the rain arrives. Again I turn on the music and think of green fields and flowering gardens. A world coming to life after the stifling heat of this long summer. Oh, for the days of winter when the rain does not return.
The next storm seems easier. The memories taking longer to show when I hear the rain come down. They do not remain as long either, shoved aside by thoughts of birds fluttering in rippling pools and frogs croaking in the fading light of evening. Maybe I can get through this.
Pit, pat, pit, pit, pat, pitter, patter.
Again it arrives. But now the memories don't. They have been chased away. They are dealt with on their own now, showing themselves when I ask, and leaving when I command. The rain is nothing more than rain now. It is no longer a reflection of my soul. My life is my own and I breathe deeply of the storm churned air for the first time in a long time. I am finally free.