Spare Rain, Sir?

“Spare rain, sir?”

My childish voice shouted the words across the sidewalk as I held out a small jar to all who passed. But no one stopped, and my little jar stayed empty until the clouds filled up.

When I was five, the rain was my life. I’d sit at the window for hours, watching the drops fall and distort my window, turning the grass outside into a dark green ocean and my eyes brighter than the sun could’ve ever been. After my mother told me to ask for rain, I started going outside on sunny days with a jar to flag down passersby and request rain from each of them. I couldn’t understand why no one donated, and why it didn’t rain when I asked.

When I started school, I found out that rain was something that happened up in the clouds when molecules rubbed together. It made the rain seem less magical.

But to this day I can still remember the feeling of watching a storm from my bedroom window, hands against the glass and eyes shining.