She says she hates the rain. I say why. She says because that's when I'm scared. That's when he comes. He who? She says my dad. I just nod, assuming she will tell me. People always do. They always bring things up when they want to talk about them. Then they wait. If you ask, they reluctantly tell you and dress it up a bit, embellish because they were caught off guard. They had it planned as far as the bringing it up now they have no plan. But, if you listen, just listen, and let them say it when they are ready, that's when you get the truth and that was how I knew. She was telling the truth. She said whenever it stormed she thought her dad was going to come. Come where? Do what? I did not know. Did not ask. Just let her tell me.
What she said is probably irrelevant. Not because it was not important. It was to her and to my perception of her and my feelings about her, yes. But she was a kid. Nine or ten I'd say. And her dad wasn't going to come and take her. He wasn't going to come in the rain, in the snow, or in the sunshine. Which was just as well for her.
But then, even then it got me thinking. Maybe sometimes. Maybe a person's perception of danger, a person's level of fear, a person's memory of somebody is not as bad as the person thinks because our minds are naturally dramatic environments. I say environment not because it is one with animals, plants, growing inside of it but things DO grow. Ideas. Hatred. Fear. Love. These things grow in it and our memories of them and ourselves evolve. Natural environments where an entire world exists that is attached, related, and relevant to the society of reality but not the same. They are somehow kept apart by our own perceptions. Dramatic perceptions where every natural disaster, every feeling, every event, is ten times more destructive, impacting, vital, and beautiful.