The weight of rain

June 22nd, 2023

Three weeks of no rain and everything started to turn yellow and was crumbling into dust. Particles of dirt were floating in the air and each step would bring up even more withered dusty flecks to cover shoes and clothes and skin. There were naively optimistic weather reports now and then with “rain possible!” but nothing happened. For three weeks. Nothing at all but the glorious sunshine.

Then the day came when the air became like a suffocating humid dirty cloth over my face. It was coming. So much wetness condensed in the air meant that rain was almost here. Finally, relief was no longer expected, it was announced. I stayed until late in the evening waiting for the first raindrops to fall, but to no avail. But I woke up early to the steady hum of rain coming down in sheets. Finally.

It rained for two days. I stayed at home, resting or truthfully — doing nothing. I was enjoying this self-imposed laziness. And I got to see the rain coming in spurts with more or less intensity but with a steady volume, quenching the thirst suffered by nature. And me. And then the break came. The front moved over. The sun came back into view. And I went for a walk in the garden, purposely getting my feet wet. I enjoyed it as well.

The branches of shrubs and trees were hanging low. They couldn't ingest all the water that suddenly was available and the raindrops stuck to leaves with a surprising heaviness pushing them down, almost to the ground. Each raindrop, ephemeral as it might be, doesn't weigh too much — raindrops feel pleasant and light and refreshing when they fall on me and not heavy at all. But hundreds, or thousands, or more — combine into a significant mass. A mass that can bow down even the strongest trees.