Rain's Poetry

I love it when it rains. The sound of rainwater as it hits the ground and makes the leaves rustle is like poetry to my ears. The constant almost calculated tip-tap-tip-tap on the roof and the smell of escaping heat from the pavement brings me to a euphoric drive down memory lane. My mind dredges this single thread of reverie of my younger days.

Back to the days of innocence and naivety, that's for certain. The memory is so potent I can almost hear mama busily scurrying in the kitchen while yapping gaily to Manang Celing and at the same time scolding my younger sister whose eyes were glued to the tv screen. It was a late Sunday afternoon, the rain was pouring mad and I, about 10 or 11 years old then, was stretched out on the living room carpet doodling on a complex arithmetic homework apparently distracted of the pungent spicy aroma of mama's adobo. That was a welcomed distraction, nonetheless. I remember vividly how snug and warm I felt that rainy afternoon amidst the looming threat of mathematics. And since then, I have always associated the word "home" to that one particular day.


Home is much, much different now. It no longer rings of mama's scoldings and laughters. No more curfews and ready-made healthy breakfasts. My days are filled with endless wanderings and instant meals. Late night prowlings and unwanted bills. I can't say I'm sad now nor can I say I was happier then. All I know is I'm living life as independent and carefree as I please. Perhaps, if I was a better mold, I would have stayed home, find a job closer to home, settle down and perpetuate the human gene pool. Aaargh... it's exactly a boring life concoction, if you ask me. I don't have anything against people who choose that path. I have friends who chose that path and I'm happy for them. It just isn't the life for me. Not yet, I reckon. From the moment I learned my abc from Batibot I knew I was meant to live my life with a bang even a fortune teller in the Basilica can attest to that with a mere glimpse of my palm and a measly fifty pesos.


So, what's the bang I'm talking about? I don't have the slightest hint. I am still at the foyer of my independent life trying to find it out. Well-meaning friends would ask, "how would you ever find that out when you can't even sit still for a minute?" and then knowingly cite a litany of my job history. I've thought of that too. Unlike before I no longer regret my decisions even the impulsive ones. How can I when those very choices have pickled me raw enough to make me see who I really am -- down to the most embarrassing weakness. Or weaknesses.


When I arrive at a decision, my mind drowns every protest and advice (besides, an unsolicited advice gets on my nerves). My decisions do not always make my parents proud of me and that saddens me. Especially if people would self-righteously question my upbringing. What I am now or who I will be doesn't define the dignity of my parents. Alas, in a cynical world filled with frustrated morality police only a few could really understand that an individual is his own person.


In this cynical world, I sought to find that bang that will eventually lead me back to a snug and warm safe-made place I can call home like that once upon rainy afternoon. Like a veteran hunter that can sense the coming of a prey, I can take a whiff in the air and know, that the bang I've anticipated is near. For now, I am still a work in progress romping my pompous rump down life's tricky meanderings.