August Thunderstorms

    August thunderstorms. My favorite. My favorite…what? you ask. My favorite time, realization, thing, person. Person? Yes, person. August thunderstorms are perfect, holy, reminders of you. Angels crying.

    August thunderstorms are the best kind. The water is warm, like a tepid shower, and I have always been able to run for forever in them.

    The raindrops are crisp, clear, and no matter how hard it rains my vision would stay sunny. The thunder rips through the air like the dropping of a thousand bombs, tons of heavy rocks, and the puddles that form in the road are like wide lakes and peaceful rivers for me.

    Over in six minutes, sometimes, I would run until the sun came out.

    But, it has been so long since those happy times.

    I would run, no where in particular, until my red hair was as dark as mahogany, and my skin shone with sparkling clear droplets. I absorbed the water, let it soak into my skin, my own moisturizing cleanser, and sometimes I would just stand, the temperate water pouring off the awnings and settling in my hair, on my skin, clothes.

    At each thunder clap I’d jump, each time, though I was hardly scared. My anxiety was a childhood memory preserved and inset into my mind; I could never forget.

    The first time I ran in the rain with you… I remember it better than you know. I could count every angel’s tear drop on your perfect skin, and you were as soaked as I. But it was perfection. Do you remember? I do. I remember kissing you, somewhere on the rainy grounds, and the rain finally blurred my vision. We were alone.

    I remember making love to you in the stands, the rain spattering smartly, brittle reminders on the old tin bleachers. I remember the way you caressed my pale skin with your own ivory fingers, easing my sopping wet Muggle clothes off, the way you folded them meticulously and placed them on the nearest bench.

    I remember it all, every ragged breath and every sensual touch. Beyond that, I remember going back after it was over, shrugging my wet clothes back on. The jeans clung to my legs, soaked. I stuffed my bra into my back pocket; it was too wet to do anything. You helped me slide the too-big red polo shirt on, the one with the wide short sleeves that reached my elbows and the bottom hem that hung a few inches past my waist. It was dark with rain and adhered tightly to my otherwise naked chest; I left all three horn buttons undone. When we walked, our bare feet squished in the wet grass, and we held hands. It was with senseless and inane laughter that we remembered that I had left my underwear, the too-thin worn navy panties, back up in the stands. Do you remember?

    Even more than that, I remember the last time we made love. Do you? I doubt it, wherever you are. But I remember. We were at the twins’ flat, the one they bought for the summer vacations, the one in the country. It was raining, hard, pounding rain, and we were running as hard as we could, and our laughter rang out into the emptiness, my silvery bells to your harsh, brassy rasp.

    It was much like the first time, all wetness and lust and impenetrable beauty. Afterwards, we went inside, and you kissed my three times, twice on the lips and once on my damp forehead. You lent me a huge olive green tee-shirt of yours, and coupled with a dry tan corduroy skirt I had brought, I was peaceful again. I brushed my hair, the raindrops beading on the comb, and let the recently-short soaking dark hairs fell in wiry waves around my head. We held hands that evening to laughter from the twins, and I fell asleep in your lap, rain washed.

    I still have that shirt, do you know? I’ve had it since that night. We were supposed to meet for lunch so I could return it, but that never happened. Remember why? Of course you do. Wherever you are now, you are probably thinking of fate, not me, thinking of flashes of green and death, not rain and kisses and old army green T-shirts.

    The most I can do is hope you are happy. Are you happy? Of course you are, I tell myself. You are happy somewhere, somewhere with your parents and Sirius and maybe even Percy, if he’s there. I imagine you are laughing with Cedric somewhere, sitting on the thick limbs of an old sycamore tree, and you are talking of us pitiful people marooned here on Earth, snickering about that Cho Chang and what she did to your stupid, hormonal teenage-boy hearts, and maybe, in my dreams, you’re telling him about the first time in the rain.