The Raindrops' Journey

• Sarah Asif, Grade 11, Beverly Hills Girls High School
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'Write As Rain 2014' competition

On a thundery night in a small town, a man slept in his grave. An indifferent divorcee of thirty-eight bawled her eyes out in the kitchen. And an eight-year-old boy shivered in bed – not from cold but from confusion.

This is the story of the eight-year-old and of what happened that night.

~~~~~~~~~~

As I observed the raindrops slide off my window and listened intently to Mum’s sobbing, the door creaked open and Mum strode in. Attempting to take advantage of the situation, I asked, “Can you tell me a bedtime story?” despite knowing this was not the right time for anything besides quiet.

She thought for a minute’s length but much to my surprise, ultimately sat down on the edge of the bed, facing the window and the rain outside. When she spoke, her voice was downright deliberate. “Tonight I’m going to tell you a story called ‘The Raindrops’ Journey’”.

“Okay,” I said, already intrigued and more importantly, deeply relieved that it wasn’t ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’ all over again.

“It’s a story about Mama Raindrop, Papa Raindrop and Baby Raindrop,” she continued and I immediately feared that this was yet another replica of the tale my life revolved around. Thankfully, I was wrong.

Momentarily distracted by my thoughts, I watched Mum trace three raindrops from inside the window with two index fingers and a thumb. “There they are,” she said, “three individuals.” My eyes never left the window and gradually, the three raindrops merged into one big raindrop that slid effortlessly off the window and onto the window sill beneath. Mum’s long fingers progressively chased them all the way to the bottom. “Did you see that?” she asked suddenly. “A family.”

I didn’t respond. Mum leaned in closer and for the first time that night, I saw her red eyes swollen. “Umm…” I began formulating a valid response but she cut me to it.

“Don’t you see? It’s the journey of life. This is you, your dad, me,” she said frantically, pointing towards three other raindrops. “We’re interlinked – I’m the frozen water but even ice melts sometimes, you know. And you’re the water, sliding from side-to-side, lost and confused and baffled because it’s not your fault, it’s mine, and your dad…” she spoke gibberish until eventually, her voice trailed off.

“And what’s Dad?” I asked, wanting to decipher this metaphor once and for all.

Mum shrewdly sidestepped the question by feigning a violent cough but somewhere in the midst of all the remorse and regret, I discerned a raw tear – a bleeding raindrop – escape her eye before it vanished into thin air. I remained resolute.

“What about Dad?” I pressed, determined.

Mum inhaled deeply, like there was a shortage of air in her lungs, then after several painfully long minutes, inaudibly whispered, “He’s the water vapour.”

It would take me ten years to discover exactly what Mum meant when she said that, but one thing was for sure – behind her icy shield, my mum was a watery woman.