Dominican Rain Feels Different

by Grace Sofia 

Rain in New York smells of wet garbage. 

It’s cold on the skin and hot in the air. 

The water steams the plastic and trash 

that piles the garbage cans of the city streets. 

Our heels click and clack, and the pads of our shoes 

slap against the pavement. 

Kids jump over puddles like it’s an olympic sport, 

skipping and hopping onto pieces of land 

where it’s still a little damp. The rain comes and goes 

in between a day of ugly gray clouds and monochrome buildings 

that blur together. 

It’s a stunning image, really, 

the color draining from the skies, 

and blobs of it returning in people’s wardrobe. 

It returns in her red trenchcoat, 

his yellow rainboots, 

her brown croc leather bag, 

and all the gold and silver in between their fingers and ears. 

Dominican rain feels different. 

It’s a caress of coolness, 

a harsh slap of cold on a hot day. 

There’s nothing like that rain. It’s a blessing during the hottest days of the year, 

a consistent refresh and reprieve for its people. 

It’s a kiss on the forehead from God above,

 and her mercy for birthing them on a tropical island.

Here, the kids splash in the water, 

free of shoes

and the layers of clothes that follow new yorkers everywhere. 

The rain pelts against 

the clay rooftops, and terracotta houses 

looks almost red now. 

The color of the Dominican Republic is in its homes, 

it’s people, more than just their wardrobes.