The Sound of the Rain
Where I come from, the rain is loud.
The first thing that came with the fall of rain was the metallic pattering of raindrops on aluminium roofs, like a white noise machine with the volume turned all the way up. Every raindrop would sound like a soda can that was falling from the sky and landing on asphalt with a resounding clang.
As a child I’d notice the sky darkening and sit by the window waiting for the rain to come. Sometimes it would start so slowly I’d be able to count every rain drop I heard before the crescendo. Other times the tropical storm would arrive without warning, and I liked those the best because the sound would surround us and I imagined it was as if the house we were in was having a shower.
With the rain came lightning, so intensely that it would momentarily light up the house before plunging it into darkness as our circuit tripped. When that happened, it would sometimes trigger the house alarm that blared obnoxiously before we shut it off. If the power went out at nighttime we would bring out the candles and torches and fan ourselves with magazines, while occasionally swatting away the mosquitoes that inevitably appear in the dark. When we talked our voices seemed to echo and travel a little further.
Thunder seems like it used to be louder, because my grandmother would cover my ears when it rumbled. I used to be scared and would cower and seek comfort in the presence of adults, who told me that the loud noises and bright flashes was God telling me he knew I had misbehaved.
Back home, rain brought a myriad of other sounds. The croaking of frogs and toads that always seemed to appear in droves after a particularly heavy shower, water dripping from a spot in the ceiling we never could fix. Strong winds shook our wooden front door that I stood behind, trying to hear the high-pitched air that whooshed through the cracks and and figure out what note it was because it sounded like the wind was trying to sing.
As I grew older I stopped being afraid of thunder, and lightning stopped tripping electrical circuits. I no longer sat waiting for the rain to come, and the sound of raindrops had diminished as aluminium roofs are no longer commonplace.
Still, I would find comfort in the low, dull thump of raindrops on the windshield as I drove, the rhythmic swishing and rubbing of wipers spaced in between. Puddles would form on uneven roads, splashing when a car or lorry would drive past it unaware.
Growing up, these were the sounds of the rain.
As I’m thinking about it I realise that the rain has been silent for years now. I hadn’t noticed when it started happening, but as the sky grew dark I looked out not in anticipation of rain but with a sense of dread, for what I couldn’t tell.
I feel sad when the rain falls, my head thinking of the all the things that went wrong, that will someday go wrong. My heart, my being, is empty.
When I walk in my solitude and feel the rain falling, I find myself hoping the rain would pour. I want to hear the thunder crack, the wind howl. I even hope the electricity would go out so I could light candles and for a brief moment pretend I’m a kid again, when rain made a sound.
Where I come from, the rain is loud.
Yesterday, the typhoon came and went while I slept.
I did not hear a thing.