Jack O'Lantern

This was probably one of the first English rhymes I learnt as a child. The monsoon rain would pelt heavily outside the nursery and everything becomes rhythmical in the sheltered world of a child. Rubbing my hand over fogged windowpanes, I would peer outside whilst synchronised voices behind me echo repetitions of the rhyme.

Whenever it pours, the sound of falling rain reminds me of the drumming of water droplets on zinc rooftops. So loud, that we had to raise our voices above the din to hear ourselves.
Nowadays, I confuse rain with my memories. When it happens, I find myself drawn to it. Rain beckons me. Consumes me with a carousal of visual images. The feeling of wet rain on dry skin gives me a tingling sensation. Like rebirth. A past is washed away.