As The Raindrops Fell
I’ve always loved the rain. Some of my best memories have this in common: they happened while the raindrops fell. I guess, in some ways, I learned to expect something good whenever I see rain, especially after it’s been away for so long. “It’s the tiny details,” I tell myself. “The tiny details that you should search for”.
It rained on a Sunday morning. We were just in the middle of morning mass when the drops started falling. I turned, smiling at my mother, feeling the usual thrill I feel when it rains setting in. We all expected it, I might even joke and say we prophesied it even, yet we refused to bring an umbrella. I tapped her, we were probably thinking the same thing then, we’d have to run under the rain. I was happy.
I don’t know about the rest of them, but I strictly insisted on not bringing the umbrella for this very reason. I wanted to run under the rain. I wanted the thrill of feeling stranded with my family in church, on an island, it doesn’t matter which; with enough imagination one can make due with what’s available. I wanted the excitement one felt when they decided to move forward anyways, all fears be damned. It was liberating, powerful. It’s the tiny details remember, the tiny details.
Of course, one must not forget to cover one’s hair!!
So off we went, under the rain, with me at the war-front, until we reached the car — rushing in, like ants to honey. We were laughing, we were happy. For once we remembered. We remembered what it was like to be children. That is of course, until I saw actual children, running towards their packed cars and taxis with their parents.
There’s something about a parent’s love you see, it’s beauty also lies in the details. As I watched from the safety of our mum’s hooded car, I saw a father holding the umbrella for his children. They were really small, and he was rather tall. They couldn’t have been up to his waist, yet he held the umbrella just in place for them, at a height that their hands could so easily touch the umbrella, yet they never once held it. I could only imagine the discomfort he must have felt, yet he did it anyways, at least until they were close to their car and he left it for them to hold while he brought the car forward.
Did I mention that he was completely under the rain himself? No shade, no cover?
I noticed other fathers doing something similar. Many ran to go get the umbrellas for their families, others went to bring the cars around to make it easier. Some women also did this, but it was more of the men. Fathers, mothers, trying to keep their children out of the rain. Of course, I loved the rain so a greater sorrow would be keeping me out of it, but seeing such scenes play before me seemed so… endearing.
I immediately entered a train of thought. I thought of the value of a parent, but most of all, of a father. Being raised with by so many amazing women, I never really understood the value of a father.
“I didn’t need one,” I often told myself.
My mother was performing both roles just fine. Later on, I learned that the value of one did not rest on the fact that they could do something no one else could — if that were the case then we’d all lose our value since someone, somewhere, could do what we do, maybe even better! No, it rested on how well they did what they could do, and how earnestly too.
The values of fathers have often been overlooked or less emphasized because women, for generations, have been the ones who took care of the children. Now, we see women performing the roles that were traditionally thought to be for only men. Now, the narrative has been changed to us. It might feel intimidating for some, their value, seemingly, reducing, overlooked. I can understand the unspoken fear, but I wish I could assure them that their value is never lost, and it never will be.
It doesn’t matter how well a woman might perform these roles, it only matters that the fathers did it. I know this because, while that man had held the umbrella up for his children, they were looking at him. Their mother was by the other side, holding up another umbrella for another one of their children, and yet they looked at him. In their eyes, I’m sure his value would never waver.
As we drove out, the car gradually drew into silence, and I was left alone to rummage through my thoughts. I did not know the man personally, maybe such an act to others seemed normal, unnecessary of observation, a habit. To me, it was beautiful, just like raindrops.
Originally published at http://discovernostalgia.wordpress.com on July 30, 2019.
