When it rains

My brother and I often slip through the downpour in my childhood, jumping with the falling rain in careless abandon.

The enticement begins with an irregular tap-tap-tap before it transforms to an irresistible tarantella. The static is our cue, and once mists turn into slopping rivers along the windows, we sneak off to embrace the deluge like a resurrected superhero.

This country of monsoons nourished these rituals as I grew up in Quezon City in the 90s. Apart from the temporary highs, the typhoons also became an inchoate of folklores and supernatural beasts. During my adolescence, the heavy pelting invites the muse.

Today, we no longer feel thrilled submerging in the rain. The rain does not come with stories of the supernatural. Instead, we share stories of destruction and survival. We talk about calamities. We count dead bodies.

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