When did you stop playing in the rain?

On my final morning in New Zealand, I quivered in boat pose on the beach as the hour’s imminent rain began falling. It was gentle at first. I stayed until it became steady and cold. And I smiled at a memory; the kind that floats past from the camera’s perspective; the kind you have to catch in a net, like a butterfly: my brother and myself enjoying an afternoon rain in a front yard that no longer exists, our amphibious little bodies skipping and striding between grass and pavement.

We were just kids and

it was just water, after all.

I like to pretend this adult rain on this adult day fell as teardrops may;

the the island lamented my departure as I did.

But it was just plain rain.

My hands started to slip forward on my mat, sand stowing away underneath my fingernails. I decided to head back; back to an expensive hotel room where my mom was surely now awake; one where there was a hot shower to be had.

I surrendered control to the sweet mermaid child in my butterfly net memory and

I started to jog

And sing

And I passed another jogger and we each, separately and also together, extended our arms out to our sides, palms toward the sky who showered us, and we smiled.

And I turned toward the sea.

And stopped

And cried

And thanked Her for the wind and the rain and all the steps and

Everything

And I told Goodness that I wished I knew what to do next

And she chuckled and said,

“No,

you don’t.”