There are rainy days that are wet and wet, making me uncomfortable. It was not really a thunderstorm hurriedly coming, tumbling down as if to bury the small houses in that poor village. But the rain rushed to the hurriedly, impatiently like a hasty old granny.
And this rain, chilling all day and night. The raindrops fell slowly, leisurely, evenly and somewhat tenderly. And of course those raindrops were only enough to wet the road, wet her garden, and wet a few wildflowers across the street but could not bury the tiny flower that was still trying to bloom.
Through the window, I turned my eyes to the other side of the street, where wild flowers were trying to reach for the tiny seeds like taking life. The small droplets crept through the door frame, knocking into the cool face that made me awake. In those days, I locked myself in this house, so solitary and lonely that I could not remember what color the wild flower in front of my house was. And now, the bright yellow color that seems to be battered by the rain is waving itself and rising up with a small, skinny body.