Descriptive Essay: The Joy Of Rain

The joy of rain

He hates the rain.

As he runs along the sidewalk, he can hear the splashing of water sloshing through the gutters. His suit and tie are soaked and his coat is dripping with water. He keeps one hand high above his head in an attempt to shelter himself, but his clothes are soaked to the bone. His other hand is wrapped around the handle of a silver suitcase, which he keeps close to him in an iron grip.

The rain gets heavier and heavier, and it sounds like a thousand hooves pounding on the ground. The water falls down from the sky like a wild waterfall, and he feels his chances of getting home quickly diminish. His knuckles turn white as he tightens his grasp on the suitcase, and he looks about badly for a shelter from the storm.

He rushes across the river of water that was once a road, he runs along the deserted pavement and finally comes to the bus stop. With a relief, he wipes the water droplets off of his coat and sets his silver suitcase down carefully.

“I hate the rain,” he mutters to himself.

“Why?”

With a start, he realizes that he is not alone. Sitting on the iron bench is an old lady, dressed in a wet scarf and a wet sun hat. Her gray hair is dripping with water in spite of her appearance; her face is split into a sunny smile. She looks at him with the curiosity of a young child as she repeats her question.

“Why do you hate the rain?” she asks calmly. “Rain is beautiful.”

Beautiful? He cannot help the puzzled expression spreading over his face. He has not heard the word beautiful used in a long, long time, and he has never heard it used to describe the rain.

The young banker leans back into his seat and looks at the water falling steadily from the darkened sky. Everything he sees is a desolate, dark gray.

“How can you say that rain is beautiful?” he asks. “It is just water.”

She blinks and giggles as if he has said something strange. “Is a Rose just a flower? Is a laugh just a sound? Is the sun just a star?”

“Well, yes,” he says, with honest confusion on his face. What else would they

“I don’t find any of those beautiful,” he replies frankly. It is true. His world is not beautiful. His world is dull and lifeless. His world is colorless. All that matters to him is his briefcase and its contents.

The old lady enquires thoughtfully. “And the money inside your suitcase?” she asks. “Do you find that beautiful?”

The answer pops into his mind at the speed of light. “Yes,” he blurts out. “Money is beautiful. If I had to name something beautiful in this world, it would be money.”

She sighs, with the air of someone who has heard these words many times before.“Money is not beautiful,” she tells him. “Feelings are beautiful.” Feelings are not a part of his world. Money is the only thing in his life that makes him feel fulfilled.

“Feelings are nothing,” he says tonelessly. “They don’t do anything for you. Feelings are not beautiful. Rain is not beautiful. Nothing is beautiful.”

She raises an eyebrow. “It is not that nothing in this world is beautiful. It is that you don’t know how to appreciate it. You don’t remember how to feel the beauty of the world anymore.”

Her eyes shine like stars as she looks at him. Suddenly, he is a small child again, staring into the eyes of someone so much older and wiser than himself. The feeling leaves his heart aching.

She is not staring into his eyes - she is staring into his