When I first met you I was very young. Too young to remember anything you said or did. They say you told me stories of how all your raindrops formed. How each one of them wished me good night and cleaned all the dirt from under my fingernails. How my first kiss was really you kissing the tip of my nose, then the tips of every single one of my eyelashes. (Now I wish I hadn’t pulled them out so often.) Though I don’t really remember any of that. But then I grew older, and we met again—and again and again, and soon enough I was remembering everything. Like the way you turned the view from my window into a watercolor painting. How at night the lights blurred into wishy-washy yellow globes. I remember the way the trees and plants would complain about you sometimes, when there was too much of you. When you soaked them to the bone and they could barely keep from bending—almost breaking—their frail green necks. But then I remember how they yearned for you when all that was there was sun and heat and barely a breeze. They used to ask me to write you letters on their leaves and bark—and beg you to come home.
And when you did you left me a pair of yellow rain boots outside my door. I know it was you because your signature was on them—this one lone, little raindrop that just never dried away. I remember those boots because you said it was your way of making sure I always had a little bit of sunshine in my life, and I never forgot that. I wore them until I couldn’t fit my feet into them any longer, and then for a while I squeezed my toes and wore them some more. But one day you came to me, and I put on those boots, and you poured down on me, and I watched those boots melt away—down my ankles and then they were just gone. They were nothing but a smudged chalk drawing on the ground like in Mary Poppins, and I couldn’t jump into them anymore.
But you told me not to be sad, because the rain is what makes everything grow. And sure enough—only a few days later—a brand new pair had sprouted outside my door. This time they were rainbow striped, and you said it’s because I was always too busy hunting for rainbows and finding only birds in the sky. I asked you about thunder and lightning—what were they for? And you said that sometimes you needed the company. Sometimes you needed someone to tell you where to go, and someone else to light the way. I asked you if the thunder ever told you stories; you said yes, but not the kind of stories you could tell me just yet. “When you’re a little older,” you promised. And one day, when I was finally old enough, I found a pair of grey rain boots outside my door and you said it was time for me to get lost in those stories. To blend in so perfectly that no one would be able to find me. But they had a thin yellow stripe at the top; “Your lightning bolt,” you explained, and then all I heard was thunder.