Monsoon Season

By: Amali Wijesena

As a kid, I forgot that rain was cold.

Not at first, but slowly.

After Colorado, we lived in Oregon for a year, and at that point, I knew. 

Rain was brutal, harsh, and frigid, 

it stole your carefully guarded warmth 

and forced the solid ground into an unpleasant squelch.

But we left Oregon, 

the evergreens and the cloudy skies.

Then it was China, Australia, New Zealand, India…

If any rain was met, it was crisp and icy.

For some reason I only remember this now, this history of sharp rain.

Maybe it's because I always romanticized the rain,

I never had to stay out in it, 

always cozy under a blanket with a book.

So I suppose it makes sense that I forgot about how unkind rain could be.

When I finally went to Sri Lanka for one very long year, 

I was met with the monsoon, 

the most lovely and pleasant rain that exists, everything floods, warm, 

it hugs you like childhood secrets.

It was so sweet in fact that I fully forgot, about the bitter, the ugly and unpleasant side of rain.

When I thought of rain I thought of endless pouring sheets, 

a joy to play in, 

where you never got sick, 

and the puddles to be jumped in never ended.