If Rain Could Talk

The first drop fell like a whisper.

Not the kind of whisper you hear from someone sitting beside you, but the kind you feel against your skin—a soft, cold hush from the sky that says, “I’m here.”

It was the first rain since the funeral.

And I was foolish enough to think it would just be water.

It landed on my cheek like a tap of your finger,

the way you’d do when I was sulking.

You’d grin, tilt your head, and say,

“You can’t stay mad at me forever.”

The drop slid down my face,

and I realized it wasn’t rain making me wet anymore—

it was the memory of you laughing,

sharp and bright and utterly alive.

If rain could talk, that drop would’ve said:

“Remember me like this. Not in the coffin. Not in the hospital bed.

Remember me when my mouth was wide with joy.”

I didn’t even know I was losing you then.

It was just another Sunday evening,

you leaving in your rusted old car

that coughed smoke like it was tired of the road.

The drop that hit the back of my hand

was warmer somehow—

as if it had fallen from the part of the sky

that remembered that day.

If rain could talk, this one would whisper:

“This was the first door that closed.

You didn’t hear it slam.

You never do, until you’re locked out.”

It landed on the envelope still hidden in my drawer.

The letter I wrote but never sent.

The one where I told you I forgave you.

I remember holding the pen,

my hand shaking like I was writing an admission of guilt.

By the time I worked up the courage to send it,

you were already gone—

and my words were nothing but ink on paper

that no one would read.

If rain could talk, that drop would have sighed:

“Sometimes, the words you don’t speak

become the heaviest things you carry.”

This one was cold. Too cold.

Like the air in that room.

Like the light from the monitor

that pulsed like it was tired of trying.

I remember holding your hand,

feeling the veins beneath your skin—

the blue map of where life used to travel.

If rain could talk, this drop would have shivered and said:

“The hardest part isn’t the beeping stopping.

It’s when the world keeps going like nothing happened.”

I was wearing your sweater that night.

The one with the hole at the elbow.

It still smelled faintly of your cologne,

the one you swore you’d never replace

because “it smells like me.”

The drop slid down the sleeve,

catching on the worn threads,

almost like it didn’t want to leave.

If rain could talk, it would’ve murmured:

“The things they leave behind are not just objects.

They are unfinished sentences.

And you will keep trying to finish them.”

I was alone in my room.

The rain was so loud it felt like the world was cracking.

I pressed my forehead to the window and whispered your name.

Then I screamed it.

Then I screamed at you for leaving.

The drop that hit my lips that night tasted of metal.

Or maybe that was just my blood from biting too hard.

If rain could talk, this one would have yelled back:

“You can be angry.

They can’t hear you, but you can still shout.

Grief has room for rage.”

I kept it.

Of course I kept it.

Three words: “See you soon.”

I didn’t know soon would mean never.

The drop hit the phone screen,

blurring the letters,

making them swim until they looked like something else.

I almost wished they would change—

that maybe they’d rearrange themselves

into something I could still believe.

If rain could talk, it would have said:

“You can reread it a hundred times.

It will never mean what you want it to.”

This one confused me.

How could there be a drop for a day that was bone dry?

Then I remembered.

That was the day I realized I hadn’t thought about you for an hour.

Just one hour.

And guilt came like a knife for my throat.

If rain could talk, it would have whispered:

“Forgetting is not betrayal.

It is proof that you are still alive.”

You were sitting on the porch.

The sun was low, the kind of gold that makes everything look like a memory.

You didn’t say anything—just smiled like you’d been waiting.

I woke up crying because I knew that was it.

That was the last time my brain would let me have you,

even in dreams.

If rain could talk, this drop would have said:

“Goodbye doesn’t happen once.

It happens every time you wake up and they’re not there.”

It was months later.

I was in a café, and someone told a joke that made me laugh so hard

I actually had to put my coffee down.

I realized halfway through that I didn’t feel guilty anymore.

Not entirely.

The drop that fell then was warm,

almost like sunlight caught in liquid.

If rain could talk, it would have said:

“They wanted you to keep living.

This is you keeping your promise.”

By the time the storm passed,

I was soaked.

The ground was dark and alive,

and every puddle looked like a mirror

I didn’t quite want to stand over.

I closed my eyes and listened.

Not just to the drops hitting the leaves,

but to the spaces between them—

where silence lived,

and where I swear I heard you breathing.

If rain could talk,

I think it would have said:

“We don’t take them away.

We just carry them for you

until you’re ready to carry them again.”