A memory

When I was around ten years old, I lived in Round Rock, Texas with my dad, my step mom, and my stepsister, Melody.
We lived in Brushy Creek Village, an apartment complex. Our apartment was in a building of four units, of which we lived in the lower right hand corner.
Melody and I played outside everyday.
Everyday we would come inside smelling of grass and sweat. Smelling of outside.

One overcast day, Melody and I were outside playing with our next-door neighbor, Sean, and two other friends who lived in the complex, Meghan and Roger, when it started to sprinkle. This was the kind of sprinkle that only leads to more sprinkle, and inevitably to rain. So we started home.

Not wanting to go inside until we absolutely had to, we spread out in the parking lot in front of the building I lived in, and began kicking my soccer ball, which apparently we had been playing with earlier, back and forth.
As we kicked the ball, it began to rain harder, until it was pouring and water ran from the tips of our hair, down our faces.
We were all so excited by the rain, by being soaking wet, by playing like we weren’t supposed to be, catching our deaths.

Sean had no shoes on, and the rest of ours were filling with water.
He said that it was easier, and no it didn’t hurt to kick the ball barefoot.
We all took our shoes off, and kicked the ball at our turns, and we were laughing so much, and jumping, our feet cold, our shirts stuck to our bodies.
And I remember thinking, “It really doesn’t hurt.”
And I remember saying, “It really doesn’t hurt,” and everyone agreeing, ecstatic to kick a soccer ball in the rain.
And that was delight.

Then my dad walked out of our front door, yelling angrily, “What are you doing? Get inside!”
Melody and I grabbed our shoes, I grabbed my ball, the group scattered. Everyone went home.

It rained the rest of the day, and we all sat inside, drying.