fall

it's hard to remember the rainy days of my childhood. i know they must have occurred, but when i try to picture trudging across the elementary school playground in a downpour, my memory is blank. i don't remember denim clinging wetly to my legs, nor drops of rainwater falling from my hair onto a desk. rainy days are a hassle now, and i have no difficulty conjuring memories of the long, soaking bike ride from my apartment to campus during college, or the frustration of trying to cover breaking news stories in the driving rain. but my childhood is blank. beyond the fact that it is meteorologically implausible that i passed through my youth without a rain-drenched moment, i can remember the days of physical education spent indoors due to a storm. i can picture the small, four-wheeled contraptions we used to wheel around the hardwood basketball courts, resembling miniature furniture movers goofing around on flat dollies.

but what i remember most is the giant silk parachute that the p.e. coach would haul out of some dusty closet and unfold in the middle of the gymnasium. my classmates and i would circle along the edge, grabbing hold of the soft fabric. at first we rippled the material up and down with furious pumps of our arms, as a few lucky schoolmates ran under the undulating canopy and peeked their head through the small hole in the center. then, with a little coaxing and cajoling by the teacher, we managed to float the parachute up, then down, up, then down, each time capturing more air underneath its belly, until the countdown ended and we reached up one more time, then raced forward and slid the chute behind us, plopping down on the edge and trapping the air inside. for a few graceful moments, the canopy floated above us, holding us within its embrace, the atmosphere growing warm with our breath. then the material sagged, losing its shape, folding in and wrapping us in its silky folds. i wanted those moments to last an eternity.