Summer's Rain

Summer’s Rain

It was the first summer after Mama died, and the house had grown quiet in a way that hurt.

Not just silent—hollow. Like it was trying to forget she ever lived there.

The curtains stayed drawn. The piano stayed closed. Dad didn’t talk much. He’d sit at the kitchen table long after dinner, staring into his coffee like it might offer him a map out of grief. And me—well, I stopped asking questions. Stopped trying to fix things. I just let it all weigh me down.

Then the rain came.

It was strange because we were in the middle of a heatwave. The kind of July where the air sticks to your skin and sleep feels like a battle. The kind of heat Mama used to fight with lemonade and open windows and jokes about frying eggs on the sidewalk.

But that day, I woke up to thunder.

Not a storm, exactly—just soft, rolling thunder like a memory trying to speak. The sky had darkened, but it wasn’t heavy. The rain came slow, like a sigh. Like someone finally let go of something they’d been holding too long.

I opened the front door and just stood there, barefoot on the porch. The rain hit the ground like forgiveness. Warm. Gentle. Real.

And then, something wild came over me.

I ran out into it.

Still in my pajamas. Hair a mess. I ran straight into the street, arms stretched wide, mouth open to the sky. I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was the silence in the house. Maybe it was the ache I hadn’t named. Maybe it was just the way the rain felt like her.

Because that was the strange part—it did feel like her.

Like Mama.

Not in a ghostly way. Not spooky. But soft. Kind. A little mischievous. Like how she used to pull me into the rain on purpose, saying, “Summer rain is the best kind. It knows we need it.”

I danced.

Spinning. Laughing. Crying, probably.

And when I looked up, there he was—Dad.

Standing on the porch, arms crossed, like a statue. His eyes looked tired. But also... confused. Like he wasn’t sure who I was, or how I’d become someone who dances in rain alone.

I stopped. Embarrassed. Soaked. I started walking back.

But then—he smiled.

A real one.

Not the tired, polite curve he wore around people who asked how we were doing.

No. This smile reached his eyes.

And without saying a word, Dad stepped down. Onto the wet sidewalk. Shoes and all. He joined me.

He didn’t dance. Not really. But he walked beside me as the rain kept falling. And that was enough.

We didn’t talk. Just walked to the corner and back. The storm above us whispering things we were too scared to say.

I think that’s when something cracked open in him.

The next morning, I found him in the garage sorting through Mama’s boxes. He asked if I wanted to help.

We found her sun hat, still holding the scent of lilac and dust. Her recipe book with smudged notes in the margins. A broken bracelet I’d given her in second grade. Little pieces of her life she’d left behind like breadcrumbs.

By the third day, we had started making dinner together again. Not great dinners—overcooked pasta, weird sauces—but we were laughing. Really laughing. And when I spilled salt everywhere, he said, “Your mother would’ve blamed the ghost.”

And I swear, the air got warmer.

That summer, the rain came every few days.

Never heavy. Never long. Just enough to soak the earth and bring the flowers back to life. The garden started blooming again. So did we, I think.

Grief is strange.

It doesn’t leave all at once. It doesn’t even really leave.

It just... shifts.

Becomes part of the air, part of the rain, part of who you are.

By August, we’d planted zinnias in the backyard. Mama’s favorite. Dad built a small bench beside them. He carved her initials into the wood. I brought out her hat and left it there, just once, for the wind to lift if it wanted.

And on the last Sunday before school started, we sat outside during another quiet drizzle, shoulders touching, hearts a little lighter.

Not whole.

But healing.

Because some summers bring heat.

And some summers bring rain.

But only a few bring both.

Only a few remind you that even the hottest days can end in softness.

That joy and sorrow can live in the same sky.

And that maybe, just maybe—love doesn’t disappear.

It just changes form.

The story end kay mujay pata lagay kay yahatak story hay.