The type of rain I abhor is an imbecilic drizzle that seeps from muddy skies and never really evaporates, forming a soupy layer hovering just high enough above the ground to drown someone, a layer trapping in the smell of warm asphalt burning my eyes and nose, matting jeans to my legs like if I showered in lukewarm water fully clothed, unable to move, constricted, choked. A much better type is a steady rinse moving swiftly through the night forming a blanket over mankind and stops the earth from turning, the same blanket as the one my mom used to tuck me into bed as a child, holding me, and wrapping me in love. A frosty shower leading to morning light waking me accompanied by rubber zipping across wet asphalt outside of my window, the rain not stopping the morning commute. The inside of my house, a still sanctuary, my mom waits for her eight-year-old son, with another blanket of protection, and with the traditional bagel topped with a pinch of salt, which I did not enjoy much then but now seems like a hopeful delicacy. The most perfect picture, no arguments, no alcohol, no anxiety, no frustration, every dissonant chord resolving at once during one harmonious morning.
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