I can barely remember what it felt like; lying in bed my toes buried under the still cold covers, rubbing my feet together to generate warmth. My newly constructed room in the ground level basement of the house I grew up in, barely lit by the moon shining through the half window in the corner. Still, tonight in my room in warm California I turn on my sound machine to rain hoping to feel that comfort. I try to remind myself of the lonely nights in that house. Listening to the familiar sound of the rain hitting the drainpipe and the soaked puddled grass. The sound of it drenching the rocky alleyway beside my window and the light from the very occasional car headlights flooding my room as it and its driver crunched home. I felt so alone. My thoughts steam rolling through my head. Doubts, questions fears and insecurities rolling through my teenage mind. Yet somehow, the pitter patter of that rain grounded me. It was my security blanket and my mother. The only thing that would certainly be there and undoubtedly come again. It never let me down and it never stayed away for long. It cleansed me when I walked home from a night I would happily forget, hide my tears and soothed my soul. It filled my shoes and my heart. I miss it. I miss the things it inspired. Living in a weather deprived city seems to show in the heart of the city itself.
One day, hopefully soon, the gift of rain is the gift I want to give my children. I want them to appreciate it, feel comforted by it, safe and blanketed by it. Rain boots by the door and umbrellas always near. I want them to run in the rain, love in the rain, cry in the rain and fall asleep to the rain. I wish for them puddles to splash in, and the windshield wipers to lull them to sleep as I drive them safely home. Until then, I will listen to my slightly off, tinny rain sound and remember as much as I can. I will dream of my nights as a child and one day, I will give my children the gift of rain.