When It Rains

Favorite Seasons

Make it rain, make it rain down low

Just make it rain, make it rain. - Song Lyrics

There are only two seasons in my home archipelago of Seven Thousand Islands: dry and wet. One never really knows which one it's going to be for the day or even for a segment of the day, but invariably either the sun shines or it rains.

After looking up at the bruised clouds gathering this late afternoon, I grin pleasedly and make a quick prediction, Rain.

I wait expectantly. Sure enough, a flash of light ensues. The sky gives out a roar, a familiar cry. The clouds are in labor. They are giving birth. I feel a small thrill as rain, like confetti, starts to drizzle silently outside. Ratiles leaves cradle its drops.  

A shower shortly starts to drum on the tin roof. I listen intently, patiently. It sounds like people clapping, as though the clouds have done something clever.

Then thunder ripples outside, more a grumble than a roar at being left behind by the lightning. The rain increases in intensity in answer to the thunder's command. The sky has opened, as if the anito gods were disconsolate.

Within minutes, large drops merge into a waterfall that needs no river as its source. Muddy water is pooling at the bottom of the adelfa bushes. My mouth gapes for a moment. It is no longer just raining. Water is pouring in sheets, beating down relentlessly, rattling the capiz shell panes of the window.

Dark clouds continue to spawn thin streaks of lightning, the latter's flashing fingers bridging the gap between heaven and earth. A moment or two passes, then the thunder comes again. The downpour has become a deluge as though from a gigantic reservoir that could never run dry.

Like a desert succulent, I drink up the beauty of the rain folding the city in its shroud. Thereafter sated and comfortably sleepy, I lie down to the perfect lullaby and insistent staccato of the raindrops.

Rain is my favorite season. I'm not telling it to stop.