Missing the Rain

Basicaly my last week before and after moving.


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It was cloudy and rainy for the first part in this part of the country this year, but then again the winter was slowly spreading its white claws all over the world. Most people were either in their cars, at home or already at work or in school. I was sitting on an empty park bench, waiting for something, maybe the first drop of rain to fall; waiting for it like it was a long lost friend that I was never going to see again. That’s when it happened, that’s when I realized how much all of this meant nothing to me until I was about to leave it all behind. I’ve always been telling myself that this is really good, that I was about to move again and keep doing what I love, I was about to explore more, see more and meet more people, but something inside just felt wrong like an open wound that started hurting every time this was about to happen. Every time I was supposed to move away from this wonderful city I felt wonderful, like nothing could stop me, but at the same time I felt awful, this place has always been here for me, every time I left a place behind I could come back and know that I would be welcomed with open arms and I couldn’t help but feel guilty that I never showed any gratitude. A memory kept swirling through my mind, of what had happened and of what was going to happen but most importantly I couldn’t help but think of what I was going to be missing. How was I going to finish what I had started without feeling regret?

Tap. I felt something cold and wet on the palm of my hand, the first drop of rain. I sat there for a few more minutes until my hair and cloths were full of small drops of rain then I started slowly walking home, the same road I had always taken back home from the park but now it somehow looked different, like it was brighter.

I watched the puddles reflect the thick grayness of the sky as I walked by all the buildings and roads. In the distance I could hear sirens howling from the street but it all seemed so far away like I was dreaming. The leaves crackled under my feet, I always liked that crunchy noise they made when someone stepped on them. The minutes home felt like hours, it’s amazing how when you’re thinking time seems to just melt away like almost nothing happened while in your mind you’ve already spoken a few hundred words, silent words that no one could hear but you and that no one will probably ever hear but you.

The buildings around me seemed to spread out more and more until I couldn’t even focus on them anymore, as if they weren’t even there, in the distance I could see a white building with a blue metal plate on the side with the number 11 on it in bold white numbers. That was my building, number 11, apartment 11. I slowly took the first step up the stairs.

            I turned the handle and walked into the dark hallway into the apartment. It was much warmer in here than outside so I took my jacket off and hung it on the wooden ladder on the left side we use as a coat rack. I saw my reflection in the mirror on the right side and saw a girl with wet, brown hair and blue eyes; it was too dark to see anything else.

I went upstairs to my room to read before my grandma came back. I walked up the wooden stair case to the 2nd floor where my room was. It was as dark in my room as it was in the hallway downstairs so I turned on the bed side lamp I had. It filled the whole room with warm yellow light. I went over to the table to get my book then lay down on the bed and pulled my covers up to get warmed up. The warmth of the red blanket soon after I lay down put me to sleep.

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