Rains of Memory

By Michael Kew

Photo: Kew.

Rain quiets ambiance of change, of introspection, of memory. Rain is singular yet falls in many forms, angles, intensity, voracity, sound, speed, swooping in from gray blurs over the ocean, a hard fog of moisture, cyclical, a wall of wet from afar, drawing near, its origin thousands of miles out, in turbulent oceanic patterns, true wilderness where nothing above water but birds can thrive.

I have never understood people who say rain equals “bad weather.” There is no such thing as bad weather—only different kinds of weather. Drought? Water is everywhere. Twist your faucet. Take a shower. Flush your toilet. Wash your dishes. Your clothes. Your hands. Your car.

The water is there.

Where is the rain?

The rain is here.