Rain as Permission

It rained today.

Do you remember our first rain?

Thick grey clouds shielded us from a harsh, oppressive sun. Soft light filtered through congregated water droplets floating in the sky like saints suspended in pious prayer. Then, without command, it rained. The rain was permission. The demands of schedules, tasks, burdens, yokes, and the incessant chattering of social scripts were cleansed away with holy water from the heavens.

Protected by providence, my fingertips reached for you. My body longed for the safety of your presence. Something in me leaned toward you without precedent, without announcement, without approval, but with undiluted desire. All thoughts of right or wrong were abandoned. Nothing depraved could feel this divine. We pressed. We paused. We lingered. We stayed in the sanctioned stillness of respite. Hours passed as permission poured upon our consecrated communion.

Eventually, the permission granted by the rain was revoked by sunlight. The conditions of our encounter slowly faded with merciless rays that sought to degrade our sacrament. Clouds gradually dissipated. Water evaporated with heat. Crisp shadows appeared on coarse pavement. Our time ran dry. We tenderly tucked our love away into the archives of memory. We emerged from the rain baptized, with a friendship covenant that renewed every time it rained.