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It was the sudden outburst of rain that caught my attention and caused me to lay down my pen and make my way over to the window. Staring out through the rain-streaked window I noted that the rain had suddenly caused everything to come to life: the previously still grass shimmered with fresh raindrops, newly-formed puddles danced anew with every drop of rain that cascaded down and the yellow-green leaves of trees shivered as the wind swept around them.

There was a girl – or perhaps a woman (It was difficult to tell due to the rain having blurred the glass on my window) – under the oak tree in front of our driveway. She clutched an umbrella in her fingers but rather than using it for its purpose (protection from the rain) she hung it on a low branch of the tree and used it as support whilst she, slowly and rather daintily – skipping over any puddles -, danced around in near-perfect circles. She didn’t seem to mind –or in fact, even notice, the fact that her dark hair lay soggy and wet, stuck in wisps all over her face or that her clothes – a bright magenta blouse and jeans – were not only soaking wet but were also slowly becoming see-through so that I could clearly make out the outline of her bra, even from a distance.

The thing that struck me as strange, however, was not the woman – or girl – or her use of umbrella or her dance. Nor was it her hair or her clothes or the way she seemed completely ignorant of everything. No, what struck me as strange was the big, bright smile that was pasted on her face and though the dark red lipstick on her lips made her resemble a demented clown, the impact of the smile was at all lessened.

Her (slightly demented-looking) joy reminded me of a feeling of childishness – one that I had lost a long time ago. It reminded me of the times, at age six or so, when the best feeling in the world was standing outside in the lashing rain with a goofy smile on your face and later coming home, sniffing, only to be rewarded with warm clothes, a soft towel, a hot beverage and, often, a good scolding.

I don’t know exactly how long I stood there by the window, reminiscing old times. And I’m not sure how long that woman – or girl – was outside dancing repetitively. But eventually she glanced up and her eyes met mine. That one instant caused her to come to a sudden halt and a moment later, her smile now gone with no traces of having been there in the first place, she was hurrying down the footpath until she was out of my eyesight.

Sighing, I turned away from the window and returned to my desk. But before picking up my pen, I decided that if Angela came home and began playing in the puddles and running around in the rain, I would let her play on.

At least for a little while.