What Makes a Good Day?

Softly pelting rain on my face shield takes me back to a moment on a warm rainy day on Sheri Drive in Huntsville, Alabama.

I must’ve been no older than 6. The soft Winnie-Ther-Pooh wellies sloshing me down the street to my best friend’s house felt identical to the ones nestled on my scooter runnerboard, tucked around my bright red work satchel. I am forty-three, but I am six.

The rain drops on my clear vinyl Winnie-Ther-Pooh umbrella made a sound now so familiar as they made rivulets not unlike those tracking my helmet shield today, working with the fog on the reverse side to cloud my view. And yet I feel as though I see more clearly in this moment. I feel free.

Even as my knees are sopping with rainwater, and the cold chill traces up my legs, even as mud streams beneath my wellies, even as I have somewhere to be, I am going on my own terms. Time stands still as I inhale the fresh rain scent and perk my ears for every traffic sound. My knees are cold, my arms warm under the waterproof coat, and I am happy that I feel and move and choose. It is a good day. Share