Tag: nostalgia

Wet Eyelashes.

Rain always reminds me of a moment from five or so years ago.

I’m in my second or third year of college. It’s raining really hard. I’m wearing flip-flops, as per usual, and I don’t have an umbrella. I’m also parked in visitor parking because I’m a commuter and can’t always afford the luxuries in life – like a parking pass. So, I’m in visitor parking, down an incline, the furthest spot on the campus from any classroom.

I step out into the rain from the cover of the parking garage and immediately get splashed by a car that is passing by – probably by someone who can afford life luxuries like parking passes. I think to myself – this moment is a metaphor for something I can’t quite connect yet – it will come to me later. This moment also sets the tone for the rest of my day.

But it doesn’t – because there he is, like a night in shining armor.

He’s actually not much older than me,  a student, in a beat up old truck – asking a rain soaked girl if she wants a ride to class. Before I can answer, he assures me that he’s not a psycho or a total weirdo. At this point, I don’t care what he is, I’m getting in the car.

I’m in the car and I’m wet, but I’m warm.

I’m warm and making small talk with a stranger.

I’m going to be on time to class.

Wet, but on time.

I  can’t remember details about his truck, just that it was beat up, noisy, and old.

I can’t remember his face or his voice or what we even said in the short distance between us in the front of his truck.

But I can remember feeling warm, inside and out, due to this act of kindness by a stranger whose name I never found out.

This is the moment I always think of when it’s raining.

I imagine him somewhere as some girl’s prince charming. Rescuing a cat from a tree, tending to a baby bird with an injured wing, helping a blind man cross the street, giving a stranger a ride in the rain, feeding the homeless, kissing a paper-cut before placing a band-aid over it, changing someone’s tire on the side of the highway, waiting up for you to get home – making people feel warm.

Today – I am standing under an awning in front of a department store watching a downpour. The entire sidewalk is wet except for a few millimeters in front of my black flats.

I guess I’ll wait for it to turn to a sprinkle or a drizzle before I make a break for my car.

But then I’m stepping into the rain and I’m soaked in seconds. I think to myself – this moment is a metaphor for something I can’t quite connect yet – it will come to me later. My flats are soaked through, so I stop to take them off, but I don’t run.

So, I’m just a rain soaked girl walking barefoot across a parking lot to my car.

I get into the car and I look into the rear-view mirror.

I am

gasping

smiling

laughing.

Rain is rolling down my eyelashes.

I am

living.

Rain reminds me of being alive.

–S.

I Called You.

Excerpt from years ago.

I’ve had your number memorized by heart for years now. The last few years – I haven’t actually used it for anything. We are over. We don’t talk anymore. When someone doesn’t live in the same city as you in certain ways it is easier to get over them.

I never have to see you at the grocery store. I never have to pass by you on my way to class. I never have to see you at the bar with another girl. Friends and family won’t tell me that they talked to you or saw you. I don’t have to go through those feelings.

Something was making it hard for me to fall asleep two nights ago. The truth is that I haven’t thought about you in a while. And then out of the darkness of my room – your phone number manifests itself into my head. I get this feeling that I can’t shake. I have to call you. I really don’t want to go there. I don’t want to hear your voice. It’s been so long. Too long.

And then my fingers are flying across my phone. My phone is lighting up. My memory is dialing your number. Your phone is ringing. Of course I blocked my own number, so you couldn’t see it and muted my end of the phone call.

Creep, I know.

It went to voicemail and some random girl explained that she couldn’t get to her phone.

I hang up.

It gave me a sense of comfort that the number didn’t belong to you anymore.

I was trying to fall asleep last night when it hit me – I was wrong.

The number I dialed two nights ago was so wrong. The right number came to me. I dialed it again, blocked my number, and muted the call.

You answered.

My breath caught and my heart sped up.

You answered after five or six rings because I woke you up. It was about 1:30 in the morning and your voice was heavy with sleep. You kept saying hello and then you hung up.

I wanted to cry. When we were mad at each other – I would always call you with my number blocked, just so I could hear your voice before I went to sleep.

I was a teenager, in love, and dumb.

I never told you it was me and you never talked about the blocked phone calls you’d been receiving.

I think that you knew. I’m almost sure that you did.

I wanted to cry because that voice was still so familiar to me after all this time. It had been the soundtrack to many of my summers, but that boy was different now. He became a man. I was different now. I became a woman.

I hope that life is treating you okay.

And I wonder if you ever get a feeling that you can’t shake in the middle of the night telling you to call me – maybe I would pick up. Maybe you’d hear my voice again and it wouldn’t have changed.

–S.