Short Stories & Personal Essays

Melancholy started pouring over me. Thunderous clouds full of vigor roared, expelling me from my state of mind. Put me to wonder once more, whether it was the fact that I was born during the hurricane season, that rain and storms are so dear to me. Rainy birthdays are the norm for me. My mother, the great storyteller that she is says that the day that I was born, Hurricane Charlie decided to introduce itself in our land and water gushed, forming streams of water that effortlessly sneaked inside houses. I can envision the scene, desperate civilians finding a way to protect themselves, scattering to cover vacant corners and creases within their homes, to keep the droplets from ruining what they have worked so hard to achieve. Gratitude – yes, that’s what I feel for having a roof that allows me to look out the window. I catch the mountains staring right back, judging even. I stumble on my left foot, half an inch bigger than my right, and can’t help but notice the neighbor fumbling to save her clothes from bearing the weight of each falling droplet over her clothes- the clothes she laid out the previous morning. Now they’re drenched. I feel bad for her and think of how our plans don’t always span out the way we want to. However disastrous, I find beauty in rain. The way they remind me of tears. The way these tears nourish the grounds below that make way to bountiful blossoming flowers, but more specifically, growth. Like rain, tears nourish. I can without a doubt say that I have grown exponentially with every tear I have shed. I feel stronger.