Rain

When I was a little girl in Hanoi, I loved playing in the summer rain. No hat, not umbrella, no raincoat. There were just me and the rain running down my face. I loved the smell of heated concrete yard gradually soaking in the rain. It might sound of irony but I smelled burning. Perhaps when the cold rain touched the hot concreted yard: the encounter of the two objects of opposite states of temperature, it created the burning spark. It’s chemistry. Or perhaps the smell was not even there. It was just in my imagination.

Now, I sometimes walk in the September rain. No umbrella. There were me and people looking at me like I was nuts. September rain in England can be bitterly cold. There was no burning smell. But still, you can hide tears in the rain. I do sometimes. I like the feeling of the rain running down my face. Then you don’t notice the tears any more. The cold freezes the sorrows. Then and there, I feel refreshed.