“When Raindrops Fell Like Magic”

It’s a grey, rainy Wednesday here in Narre Warren, Melbourne. As I sit beside the window, warm tea in hand, I watch the water trickle down the glass. The rain isn’t heavy, just soft and steady. Each drop taps gently on the roof and the ground, creating a rhythm that feels almost like a lullaby. There’s something incredibly peaceful about this sound—a natural kind of music that touches the heart.

Today, as the rain falls quietly outside, it brings back a flood of memories from my childhood. It’s funny how something as simple as rain can take you back years in just a moment. I remember how we used to feel when the first drops started falling. We didn’t run for shelter—we ran towards the rain. There was something magical about those moments, something pure.

Back then, we didn’t have many distractions. No phones, no screens, no apps. We had the sky, the earth, and our endless imagination. As the rain poured, we used to sit outside, hands wide open, trying to catch the raindrops. We’d compete with each other—“I caught five!” “No, I got seven!”—even though we knew we couldn’t really count them. But it didn’t matter. We believed we could, and that belief was everything.

Sometimes, we would sit under a tree or beside a small wall and stare at the sky. We’d try to trace the journey of a single drop from the clouds to the ground. “This one is mine,” one of us would say. We’d follow it with our eyes as it fell, wondering where it would land—on a leaf, on a rock, maybe right into a puddle. And when it did, we would shout with excitement, as if we had won some invisible game. It was silly, but it felt so real and joyful.

The smell of wet soil, the cool wind brushing against our faces, the laughter we shared—these things are still alive in my memory. I remember how our clothes would get soaked, our hair dripping with water, our shoes full of mud. But none of it mattered. Our parents would call us inside, worried we might catch a cold, but we’d pretend we didn’t hear them, lost in the world the rain had created for us.

There were times we made little paper boats and watched them float along the small streams that formed on the roads. We imagined those boats going on great adventures. Other times, we just lay on the ground, feeling the drops fall on our faces, talking about dreams, school, and stories we made up on the spot. Every rainy day felt like a festival to us—something to celebrate, not to hide from.

Now, sitting here years later, I realize how special those moments were. Life has changed. We’ve grown up. Responsibilities have taken over, and rainy days now mean traffic, wet clothes, and staying inside. But deep inside, I know that child still lives in me. When I hear the rain, when I feel that soft tap of water on my window, something inside me smiles.

I miss those days—not because they were perfect, but because they were real. The world felt bigger, the sky seemed closer, and happiness came from the smallest things, like a single raindrop falling from the sky.

So today, as it rains gently over Narre Warren, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and let the memories wash over me. I may not be that child anymore, but for a few quiet minutes, I feel like I’m back there—counting raindrops, chasing dreams, and laughing under the open sky