The Taste of Rain

There was a time when I wasn't afraid of storms.

No reason to worry about the lightning cutting across the sky in brilliant flashes of white, or the sound of thunder booming and building again in a slow moving crescendo, like the steady roll of a timpani drum.

When the rain came down in torrents, I'd dash outside in excitement, my arms open wide to embrace the sky with joy. And I'd dance. Finding every puddle that could be found, my feet sinking deep into the grass, down into the mud.

I remember the taste of rain, the way it felt as it clung to the tips of my eyelashes, holding on for a moment and then like tears waiting to be shed, letting go to fall softly against my cheeks. Unlike tears, the rain was always sweet against my tongue.