Rain

One of my most mischievous memories is of a rainy day when I was in first grade. I was told by my mother to wait at the front door of the school where she would pick me up. When the last bell rang, being the obedient child I was, I stood and waited, all the while, watching raindrops plop in the puddles.

Those polka-dotted puddles looked like far too much fun to wait any longer, and I began to splash in them myself. After awhile, I bored of the puddles near the school and decided it would be so much more fun to walk home. Besides. I was tired of waiting.

So I –along with my brand new patent-leather shoes–walked home. And I splashed in the puddles and skipped in the gutters, kicking up water all the way.

When I reached my house, I (and my shoes) squished up the front porch stairs and opened the front door. There stood my mother.

And now. . . you don’t want to know the rest of the story.

But, here’s a haiku I wrote about my love of rainy days:

Splashing in puddles

How the rain washes away

My inhibitions