The weekend brought this school year’s first downpours to San Diego, and as such, I have taken it upon myself to dramatize it, to romanticize the sharp chill in the morning and the damp gradient of wet denim at the bottom of my jeans. To me, a rain day is a special day. It’s practically a holiday by the way I plan around it and anticipate its arrival. A rain day means hoodies and sneakers, hot tea and blankets, hurried walks across the parking lot. But most of all, a rain day means a window.
In truth, I’m too picky to enjoy the rain while I’m standing in its bitter cold, but my sentimentality favors my memories behind a window. Behind a window, I can listen to the rain, watch the showers from indigo-grey clouds, and track my favorite brown leaves as they race in a stream against the sidewalk—all the while, I’m still warm on the other side of the glass.
I’ve realized that some friendships are like a window. My best friend, Lynn, is my window.
The storms here are no threat to my window’s glass, and I sit, sometimes for nearly an hour, watching the rain. No matter what small conflicts arise between us—me and Lynn—I never feel afraid that we’ll go our separate ways. Even when there’s occasional lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, I’ve never wanted to budge an inch from my seat by the window. Because I know that our friendship won’t let in the piercing wind. Lynn is too caring, too loving to do that.
My window is crystal clear. She doesn’t hide secrets from me, and she opens my eyes to the beauty of the world, all the good and bad, on both sunny and rainy days. Without her, I’d never know the beauty in the bright morning after thunderous nights. Those early mornings, I open my window to crisp air and the loudest birdsong I’ll hear all year. My window, my precious friendship with Lynn, unveils what it must feel like to have a soulmate—someone to live, grow, laugh, and cry beside, with unwavering trust.
I must admit that on non-rainy days, on the usual unremarkable mornings, I do not anticipate the sunrise, since cloudless skies and 7 a.m. can’t compare to dew-bejeweled flowers and faint rainbows. These days, I overlook the value and importance of a window. I admit that more times than not, I forget to tell Lynn how much I’m grateful for her.
And so I’ll write it now: I am deeply grateful for the beauty and strength she’s brought into my life. I’m grateful for the things she’s taught me about being dependable and honest. And lastly, I’m grateful for the rain for reminding me that my window is there and that its glass won’t shatter.
