And I Start to Complain that There's No Rain

And it came.

In sprinkles at first.

I watched them on my windshield.

And I wiped them away.

By the time I got to the parking lot, the rain was hitting harder.

I grabbed my notebook and a folder with my unprotected homework. I covered my hair with my hood.

Some drops from my car handle fell onto my hand.

And I wiped them away.

Halfway to my classroom, the rain was falling faster.

I let loose my hood--it wasn't working anyway. I clutched my notebook to save paper. I tried to decide whether to smile or to shiver.

Some drops fell on my face.

And I wiped them away.

Once I started walking to my newly appointed classroom, the rain was dropping deeper.

The sidewalks were flooding. I jumped over puddles. And soaked the bottom of my jeans.

Drops covered my clothes.

And I couldn't wipe them away.

Which is why, when I showed up to class 2 minutes late, I was soaked.

My hair was wet. My jeans were dripping. And I was long past the cute, oh-it's-raining-outside wet.

I was more in the oh-you're-homeless wet stage.

Or the who-threw-you-and-your-homework-in-the-pool wet phase.

So I sat in the back of the classroom, curled up in a wet white jacket, and scribbled across my crinkled notebook.

And I thought about buying an umbrella.

Two and a half hours later, I walked out of that classroom.

Mostly dry.

And I start to complain.

There's no rain.