Today I woke to the sound of rain. Even now as I sit on my sofa I hear the gentle patter of raindrops outside my window. It is the rainy season, which is as good an equivalent as snow and makes the whole world feel a little bit more cozy as people duck into shops to escape the rain. The clouds come rolling in over the horizon, cerulean if I'm lucky, grayish green and sickly yellow if pregnant with lightning. I love the thunderstorms most of all. They seem gentler somehow, as if they were an old man, grumbling about the day in his passing.
I can imagine the rain sweeping across the island, smattering on the broad green leaves of the jungle, falling on concrete, on shophouses, on city centers, on expats and locals, on rich and poor, chattering along the tops of umbrellas and drumming the faces of those who didn't bring one. Me, in most cases.