(an exercise in writing)
The rain tip-taps on the dirty white balcony outside the sliding glass doors of this one-bedroom apartment, and I sit and watch as the memories soar within my mind. I see the trees across the road, the duplexes painted that awful robin’s egg blue; but in my head the journey has begun.
I’m taken back to the small town I grew up in, down in the middle of nowhere; only six hundred residents at the time and so very quiet. I remember looking out my bedroom window to the tree in the front yard, the greens vibrant against that dark grey sky as rain started to fall. It was warm enough to have the windows up and cool enough to go without a fan; a more perfect day has yet to rival that afternoon.
Days of first true love and heartache were all filled with rain and I felt every last second, every little butterfly, and every single breath. It was glorious, the feel of the rain as it washed away our doubts and fears.
Surely these memories were locked away for good reason, and I will not dig them out for all the world to know now. Instead I shall sit here and watch the rain, and I will look back fondly on those days once again.
But not today.