I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest my entire life. Sometimes I think about what it would be like to live somewhere else—somewhere where they have long seasons of sun, or somewhere with many feet of snow. People always ask if the gray skies get to me, and my answer is always no. I love them. I love rain. I love the slate blue ocean and the rose gold glow of the mountains at sunset and the evergreen of the trees.
But would I feel that way if I lived somewhere else? Would I hate gray skies if I didn’t live somewhere where they are ubiquitous? Would I miss the rain if it was gone?
It’s the “grass is always greener” question, isn’t it? But I’ve always felt that the grass is plenty green right here. Other places are wonderful to visit, but until I find somewhere as uniquely gray, blue, rose gold, and green as it is here, I’ll stick around.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) from Greek ombro for rain and -phobia for fear of.
A fear or dislike of rain.
Splash her with a bucket of water and she’ll melt like chocolate in a microwave. Rain, though—rain is a slow death, a trickling death, a slow dissolution into steaming soup easily washed down the drain.
Of all the things to be afraid of, rain seems the most nonsensical. An arrow in the head or a knife in the heart will end her more quickly. Rain is subject mostly to whim and not so easily weilded.
Summoning an umbrella with a finger, she steps out, wincing as a drop hits her forearm. It stings, but is prettier than most dangerous things.