Heavy rain pours down in endless streams. Stepping outside on a day like this would leave me soaked from head to toe—but even so, I truly love rainy days. As I pondered why, my memories drifted back to my childhood, settling on my elementary school days.
My parents were farmers. Long before the sun rose, they would quietly prepare breakfast for us before heading out to the fields at dawn. One morning, I hastily ate my meal and rushed off to school, barely noticing the sky. By the time classes ended, however, the heavens had opened, unleashing a torrential downpour. Back then, cell phones didn’t exist.
Even if I could have reached my parents, they were too busy to fetch me with an umbrella. I lingered at the school entrance, hoping the rain would let up, but when it showed no sign of stopping, I had no choice but to step into it. With each step, the rain soaked through my clothes, bag, and even books until not a single dry spot remained. And yet, oddly enough, I found joy in it—wielding a stick like a sword, slicing through puddles, chasing frogs, and brushing past the rain-drenched grass along the way.
When I arrived home, drenched, Mom greeted me with relief and quickly handed me a towel and fresh clothes. I soon noticed that she was soaked too—she must have just returned from the fields. As I dried off and changed, the rich aroma of sizzling oil filled the air—Mom was making buchimgae (Korean savory pancakes). After savoring each crispy bite, I rested my head on her lap and drifted into a peaceful slumber.
Whenever it rained heavily in the morning, I could share breakfast with my parents. But more than anything, what I cherished most was knowing that Mom would be waiting for me with open arms when I got home from school. That’s why I loved rainy days.
Even now, as an adult, I still love rainy days. Though I can no longer return to my mother’s comforting embrace, the memories of my childhood fall with the raindrops, seeping gently into my heart and filling it with warmth.