When the Rains Won’t Come

It’s 1:15 am, a quiet and restless Sunday morning in my corner of the world. I lie sprawled on my mat, staring at the motionless ceiling fan above me. No breeze stirs the air, and sleep has fled far from my eyes. I can feel the heat pressing against me, relentless and heavy, like an unwelcome embrace.

I rise, pacing slowly to the window. The moon hangs faintly behind a gauzy veil of clouds, casting a soft light over the parched ground. I long for rain. Not a drizzle, but a torrential downpour, the kind that drowns the earth in its embrace and leaves the air crisp and new.

In my mind, I’m standing in the heart of the fields, arms wide open, as the rain falls in cold, stinging sheets. The first drops splash on my skin, and soon, my hair clings to my face, soaked. The earth beneath my feet softens, its dry cracks filling with rivulets of water that flow with urgency, quenching the land’s desperate thirst.

I imagine the rain’s rhythm — a symphony of life, drumming on leaves, rooftops, and my upturned palms. Each drop carries a promise of renewal, washing away the dust, cooling the heat, and replacing the thick, stale air with something fresh, something vibrant.

But the clouds don’t break. The sky remains stoic, refusing to spill even a tear for the land below. I sigh, pulling away from the window, back to the silence of my room. The heat hasn’t lessened, but my body feels calmer, lulled by the dream of a storm that may never come.

My old standing fan creaks as it turns, its tired blades battling valiantly to create even a whisper of relief. It works harder than it should, as if it too longs for the rain to come and take over its thankless task.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint crow of a rooster, the first herald of dawn. The sky will brighten soon, bringing a new day of heat, work, and hope. Until then, I’ll let my thoughts linger on rainclouds and rivers yet to be filled.

Perhaps, tonight, I’ll dream of rain. And if I’m lucky, the heavens might just listen.