I picked Remy up one day, daintily like the first day I brought her home. I stroked her coat of delicate white in almost silence. The only sound was a hushed sob that resounded more like a memory than a sound, and I once again felt that terrible feeling, one that I had never known but now knew more than I wanted. I didn’t call down to my mother because I didn’t want her to know. It was my responsibility. I was only ten years old.
I found a suitable box—from my favorite pair of shoes, they were blue, like sadness—and put a white towel inside. I gently lay Remy on top of the towel. Her figure blended into the white and she disappeared except for a faint shadow. I put on my still muddy boots and wet rain jacket and pulled the hood almost over my eyes. I walked outside into my backyard. There were a few trees seemingly scattered around at random, but not enough to shield me from the rain.
With each resounding footstep the rain intensified in volume, in momentum, a contrast to my despairing walk. I felt lifeless amidst the illimitable drops of vitality. I was just a child. I wasn’t supposed to deal with these emotions. I began digging with a little shovel my parents kept by the backyard flower garden. Water splurged from the bloated ground as I dug a hole. My first inclination was to place the box below, cover it up and walk away. But I was still a child.
I picked Remy up and held her in my hands, pulling her close to my chest, my hood towering over her keeping her dry. I stood like one of those steel sentinels in the shrouded world and held her in the rain. This went on for a length of time I’ll never remember.
I was still holding Remy, cold though she was, when a drop of rain touched her and splashed lightly onto my hand. Another and another fell. The drops were distinct from the downpour, feeling more like the warmth from a light than a liquid. I looked down to find that the rain had never touched her. The drops had come from me. My lips quivered, both from the cold blanket of rain and my own inhibitions resolutely dissolving. And once again I cried.
It seemed like everything important around me was dying: my grandmother and Remy. Poor, beautiful Remy. I was happy when they were alive; but now they were gone, and I wanted to be gone too. I felt selfish. I felt ashamed. I felt overwhelming sadness as those few tears burst into a downpour parallel to the world around me.
Then it happened. She stirred, like a hiccup, forgotten as soon as it passes but still leaving a faint memory. Her head moved and I coughed out a laugh between my tears, and before I could laugh again Remy was burrowing into my chest, trying to keep warm. I ran inside and up to my room, not caring to remove my boots or coat. I set her on my floor and she ran all around like she did before. By now I was laughing more than crying.
My grandmother was right about the rain. But I had to let go of her memory, of my sadness before I could take something back, something as wonderful as Remy. Sometimes people are brought into your life for a reason. Sometimes they’re taken away. I thought my grandmother’s death was a numbing experience for me, but it actually taught me how to feel, and I didn’t realize it until that moment. Her death was the catalyst of action that made all the difference in my life and brought magic into my heart under the name of feelings.
I realized I was almost eleven. I felt happy.
That was the day the rain came alive.
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