Those weeks of the rainy season in Tokyo, where my shoes never completely dried, where the aircon stopped working due to excess humidity, and where the sound of raindrops hitting the roof became the lullaby you were forced to get used to in order to get any sleep at all. I remember my see-through umbrella from under which I took eerie, silly, wet photographs of raindrops, without ever quite managing to capture their ephemeral beauty. I remember catching a taxi five minutes worth of walk away from home and somehow still managing to emerge at my front door completely drenched. I remember how odd it was that the rain made me cold even though the drops themselves were warm. I remember the smell of wet clothes, wet towels, wet hair, wet everything. I remember splashing ponds, lakes, oceans. I remember hiding from the water under trees, under a bridge, under the open sky. I remember thunder, so much thunder, with lightning bolts sure to hit one tall building or another. I remember smiling in the rain. Not crying; dancing, kissing.
I remember rain. It seems the rain remembers me too.