You Dancing in The Rain

That afternoon, the smell of rain hang in the air. It was like the damp smell of soil, as if already wet from anticipation. Soon enough it rained; drizzle at first, but quickly gaining momentum, racing down to the ground. The splatters were getting louder.
I peered through the narrow window while in front the continuous beads of water trickled down, forming a kind of screen. I was in a daze. The downpour never failed to amaze. Like sheets of some strange fabric being rolled down from the sky. Every droplet is different, but somehow they are connected, united in purpose.
Then you appeared. Running in the middle of the incessant watery air strike, arms flailing, head held up high. You were also in another kind of race. If the droplets' goal is the ground, what was yours? I wanted to ask you that. To capture as many droplets as possible? To savour the sensations of the pricks on and trickles of the droplets on your skin?
You tossed the beads of water up with your hands. In mysterious gestures, the beads danced, shone like pearls, bobbing up and down around you. No, you were the dancer, the beads merely followed along, as if enthralled by the beauty of your movement, defying gravity, coming under your bidding.
You suddenly stopped. Arms stretched out, head facing up the sky. You let the shower come upon you, trickling down your bodily nooks and crannies. Your eyes were closed, as if meditating, tracing the trail of water, the lingering sensation of the vestiges, quickly renewed, the coolness seeped again, soaking you with ever-continuing freshness.
Such performance, such grace. You started running again. Going out of view. The rain still struck with the same ferocity. Suddenly the wind was blowing gentler. The curtains of water were closing off. Curtain call.

To My Unborn Brother/Sister

Hi.
First of all, sorry that I've been oblivious to your existence for 20-odd years. You, you always exist in our parents' mind. Of course your existence is independent of my awareness of it. It's not like: "I am thought, therefore I am", isn't it? Still, somehow I feel the need to apologise. The opposite of love is not hate. The opposite of love is ignorance.
You who didn't have a face, you who might have only been a clump of cells beating with life and were never beyond,
You know, eyes are formed before the brain is. Then slowly the complex optic nerves grow, visual cortex and the rest of the brain follow. Did you have your eyes? Even when all you could see was darkness all around. Even when you didn't have the synapses and neural network to comprehend that darkness. No, you didn't have a chance to; you were fumbling in that darkness, only to be abruptly cast away in another kind of darkness: the abyss of non-existence.
Our parents told me that when mother was aware of my intrusion to the world, they had planned to wash me away. Well you can always see a baby as a threat or otherwise. But then I was a little beyond a clump of cells, too big to remove without risk. So here I am. But when I am pondering about you, my little brother/sister, the short period you spent on Earth, I am wistful about my own. I just live a little beyond, that's all. Eventually I will be cast away into that same darkness, the path you had treaded.
No, I am not angry with our parents. It is something they had to do, given the circumstances. And I beg of you, don't resent them for it. Parenting must be one of the most difficult jobs on Earth. You are supposed to be responsible to shape another human being's life -- not only morally or educationally like what teachers do, but in every literal sense, genetically, financially -- think about it. The word 'responsibility' is bloated, forced to take on every meaning available to it. It's big, it's heavy -- conjure the image of Atlas carrying the world on his shoulder. This burden is so great that one may be understood, if not forgiven, for choosing not to bear it.
Potential. That is what you were. Seed that didn't grow, even though it has the potential to. Potent, but not yet. Possible to be. The power is hidden, latent. Usually I would remark that there is no use talking about possibility of becoming something if in the end it doesn't become something. But here I am willing to dwell in the realm of the hypothetical for a while. In you, there are possibilities sprucing up like branches of an overgrown tree. It's not only in you, but in everyone else, in the surroundings. Imagine how complex this system is when everything comes into contact. Had you been around a little longer, you will tread your tree, choosing which branch to climb next, and the same with others. You may end up high up there, you may fall -- I don't know because I myself am still struggling making my way up. Now, when you ceased to be, well, the branches got cut off. There's no way up; there's no tree to climb; there's no you to climb.
As I said, even though you ceased to exist in this world, you live in our memories, you live in my writing, even if it merely a shadow of your existence. But don't forget that you came into contact with this world; with your own set of possibilities, rippling, affecting others, even until now.

Love.