I think about rainy days from my childhood in Panama more than I expect to.They come back without warning.
Not as a story.
More like a feeling that settles in my chest.
The rain there wasn’t dramatic.
It didn’t announce itself.
It just arrived.
Warm.
Heavy.
Steady.
Everyone knew what to do when it started.
Life didn’t stop — it simply slowed down and rearranged itself.
As a kid, rainy days felt different.
The air changed.
The sound filled everything.
Rain on roofs.
Rain on leaves.
Rain in the distance.
There was nowhere to rush to.
Nothing to fix.
Nothing to optimize.
You stayed inside a little longer.
You watched.
You listened.
I don’t remember specific events from those days.
I remember the atmosphere.
The sense that time had loosened its grip.
That the day didn’t need to prove anything.
Even now, rain does that to me.
It pulls me inward.
Not in a sad way.
In a quiet way.
Like the world has turned the volume down just enough for me to hear myself again.
Adult life feels like constant forward motion.
Plans.
Progress.
Next steps.
Rain interrupts that.
It reminds me of a version of myself that wasn’t trying to get anywhere.
A kid who didn’t need a reason for the day beyond being in it.
When those memories surface, they don’t ask for analysis.
They just want space.
So I let them pass through.
Like rain always does.
No lesson.
No conclusion.
Just a moment of remembering
before everything starts moving again.