Rain

Only on days when you forget your umbrella and watch the drizzle after work, seeing female colleagues magically pull out sun umbrellas and float away, do you feel truly lonely and hopeless. After lingering in the lobby for a few minutes, muttering “God helps those who help themselves,” I stepped into the rain that seemed like it would never stop. A surge of courage and conviction welled up inside: no one is coming to save you—except yourself.

So I hopped on my bike with no fenders and rode slowly through the rain. Getting soaked was inevitable, so I tried to look graceful and let my dermis enjoy the spring weather. What a lover of life I am, I thought—even in this awful weather, if I fall, I’ll do it with style.

The first time I rode in the rain was many years ago in summer. A relative had broken a bone and was in the hospital. His son came from Xichong to Chengdu to take care of him and stayed at my place temporarily. Once, he and I were riding one bike back from the hospital. We were almost home when the weather suddenly changed—dark as night in an instant, strong winds kicking up, dust and plastic bags from the market flying everywhere. Then came the heavy rain, and soon sewage overflowed along the streets while manhole covers bubbled with water. I felt like the whole city was about to be flooded. We hid in the market. He asked, “What now?” “Let’s charge through!” I hesitated for a moment, thinking no one was coming to save me, and followed him into the rain.

After that, I never got caught in the rain again. But my deepest impression of rain comes from childhood. When I was in elementary school, I lived with my grandparents in the village. One day we were eating lunch under the eaves when the weather changed abruptly again—no wind this time, just rolling dark clouds turning everything pitch black. Around that time, there were rumors the world was ending, and I thought it really was. Suddenly, lightning struck the mountain right in front of us with the most violent thunder—the rice bowl almost cracked. I said to Grandpa, “It’s terrifying! Let’s go inside to eat!” He calmly picked up a piece of pickled vegetable, took a bite of rice, and said, “What’s there to be afraid of? It’s not going to hit us!” So I sat under the eaves, facing the roaring thunder and lightning, calmly finished my bowl of rice, and waited until the downpour arrived.

Thinking about it now, my most artsy period was indeed childhood. Later, I never again had the mood to appreciate lightning, thunder, and splashing rain flowers.