A Random Autobiography About

the Rain and Me (Obviously) 

by Sara Green

My mom says it was raining when I was born
It wasn’t
She just knows I love the rain

We had a small, boxy television set
The kind with the satellite dish that barely ever connected to the satellite
Revolving around the rock we called home
I wanted to be an astronaut.

My favorite picture book in pieces, a pair of scissors next to it, and next to those scissors,
my little sister
But we must learn to forgive
I had vivid nightmares of a lady at my window, her midnight hair dangling in front of her
face, reminiscent of the banshees I read about in my grandfather’s mythology collections
I’m still waiting for her to leave

I tripped over my own two feet at my grandmother’s house while walking across her worn
down wooden floor
The cast was purple
I crawled under the desk and chopped all of my hair off the third day of kindergarten with a
pair of safety sissiciors
My pet hamster died and I cried for two days straight.
I picked up a paintbrush.

My cousin and I got lost in the middle of a national forest
With nothing but our bicycles and our brightly colored helmets
But he said we would be okay
Because he knew how to build a bow and arrow out of the twigs that littered the ground
And I knew how to start a
Fire.
I almost starred in a Skippy Peanut Butter commercial

I’ve learned how skin scars.
I bought seven college-ruled notebooks from the 99 Cents Store at eleven p.m. on a
Tuesday night.
And I started writing.

I got an acceptance letter.
The envelope came with a bag of confetti.
Yellow and purple and green and every color you could think of.

I impulsively painted salamanders all over my new guitar last weekend.
I want to shave my head, even though I know it won’t look good.

And I really hope it rains tomorrow.