"Pitter patter."

"No, plop."

"Splash?"

"Drop."

"Kerplunk!"

Nine year old me would burst into a fit of giggles at kerplunk. It was her thing. Sitting in the same window, deciding which onomatopoeia fit the rain the best. If contact between the water and the window was precise and calculated, it was a plik or a drip. If the window and the weather were in a heated match, it was splosh, thump, and splatter.

Little Me would sit in this window every time it rained, waiting for her mom to come home from work. One night in particular, it was a distinct pitter patter. The rain was steady and determined. It was the kind of rain you'd see out the window in the back of cabs. The kind of rain that soaks the guy trying to get to the girl before her plane takes off. The kind of rain that would end in sunshine and rainbows because she never got on the plane. It was a sad rain; it was a necessary rain.

That was Little Me's favorite rain.

If you asked Little Me, I bet you she'd say that window was meant for her. Her fingers ran with the bumps and dips in the deep, brown wood. She'd trace spirals with her hands, eyes closed, and smile when her fingers came across the only smooth surface on the window. A patch of vibrant pink nail polish. Little Me's mom flipped when she saw it. They were renting, and her mom wanted the deposit back. Little Me thought it gave the space character, but I now know it's just a splotch on some wood. A paper towel, some nail polish remover, and a little rubbing was all it took to get rid of it.

The window was shaped like a trapezoid about three feet off the ground. It was just big enough for Little me to sit in. The warm, beige curtains closed her off to the rest of the world, at least, to the rest of the living room. A blanket, a pillow, and a book protected the space at all times. The window, really three windows conjoined together, was facing this rickety playground.

Everything on this playground was made out of wood, except for the metal slide, the plastic seats of the swings, and the metal chains that held the swings. There were three swings; the one for babies, the tilted one, and the one the middle schoolers would always put really high up. There was a bridge between two platforms that took Little Me ages to confidently cross (she used to go halfway on all fours before chickening out). The way it creaked and squealed freaked her out. To her, an animal was suffering under her weight, crying out with every step she took. If only she knew, it was just old. It couldn't hold kids up like it used to.

When Little Me first saw this playground, she was disappointed. It didn't look like much, but little did Little Me know; the ramshackle appearance was nothing but a facade, a mask for a grand castle or a robust stronghold. Many a time, Little Me would gather up all her friends. They'd arm themselves with swords (large sticks), and fight to death (until dinner) for their fortress (the rickety playground). Countless imaginary battles took place on this field. Little Me might've said some brave soldiers fell. I'm pretty sure they just moved. Little Me met her best friends on that field. Now, I couldn't tell you how her best friends were doing.

That pile of wood brought countless hours of joy to Little Me, but that window brought lifetimes.

Her mom would join her there whenever it rained. They sit in silence for a moment. Her mom was encompassed in calm, but Little Me would just fidget. Little Me wasn't sure how perspiration could make someone so happy they could cry. One day, curiosity got the best of her, and she asked.

"It reminds me of home," she'd answer, eyes transfixed by the weather.

"Tell me about home," Little Me would ask, eyes wide open. She lived for her mom's stories. Her mom always told the story of the snake.

One day, Little Me's grandad asked Little Me's mom to go get some wood for a fire. Her mom did as she was told, and when she came back, her dad told her to stand still. She panicked at her dad's words, but did as he asked. Her dad reached into the pile of wood in his daughter's hands and yanked a snake out of it. He tossed the snake into the fire and proceeded to beat it to death with a stick. Little Me's mom was terrified of snakes and ran to her sisters for comfort. After that, she never gathered firewood again.

Little Me loved the snake story. She got to be the proud granddaughter of a courageous hero and snicker at the idea of her mom being afraid of anything. She was the bravest person she knew. Her mom always told stories of jumping off great waterfalls, obnoxious hyenas, and seeing lions and giraffes in the wild. Little did Little Me know: not all her mom's stories ended this way. Sometimes, people are dragged into the streets and beaten to death for love. Sometimes, people have to escape their homes for safety. Sometimes, villages are burned. Sometimes, the snake story isn't that of a brave father. Sometimes, the snake story is that of a young child losing their bestfriend to a water snake right before their eyes.

Storytelling wasn't all the window was good for. One could also read stories. The Sisters Grimm was a recurring guest in the window. Two sisters discover a brand new realm of fantastical creatures and help to keep them protected. Badass preteens made young me feel like she could do anything, be anything. Many times that window was the stage for a fight against the Big Bad Wolf or a speedy get away from some hideous beast or another. Most of the time, these quests and duels ended with Little Me on her living room floor. Little Me wasn't the most balanced, and the window wasn't exactly the most spacious area. Over the years, younger me has developed the skills of walking straight and staying up right, leaving her klutzy formerself behind. Although, playing pretend hasn't left her entirely. Instead, I took her love of performance and put it on a real stage. I've never been the preteen guardian of the magical realm, but I've gotten to be a ditzy dancer and promiscuous royalty, and I have many more roles ahead. I'm not sure if Little Me would like it as much, but I'm in love.

Little Me was a much bigger advocate of reading than me. She'd go through six chapter books in a month, and I'm barely six chapters into a book I started two weeks ago. To be fair, she had way more free time. Her homework was always done at school and she only played outside for a few hours after school. Unlike me, she never had any sports practice or play rehearsal. No math team or link crew or work or homecoming committee. I think she'd be overwhelmed by all that work. I think I am, too. But it's worth it. I gladly trade all the stories I could've read for all the friends I've met, people I've helped, memories made, and money I've earned. I don't think Little Me would say the same. Giving up her stories is one thing, but she'd probably have to give up some TV time, and that option ain't on the table. That option isn't even in the room.

ICarly, Adventure Time, Victorious, Sonny with a Chance... The list goes on and on of her many televised obsessions. The window was facing the side of the television, so if Little Me wanted to watch TV, she was presented with two options: abandon her beloved trapezoid or turn the TV and watch from an awkward angle. Option two was a common selection. If I was ever presented with that choice, I would choose to sit on a warm, comfortable couch, instead of cold, hard wood surface.

I don't know what Little Me loved so much about sitting on that window. Did watching the sky transition from a thundurus, commanding, grey storm to a warm, welcoming yellow sunset tickled by wispy white clouds capture her? Was the window such an amazing place to host performances, she became addicted? Did her mom's stories fill her with so much wonder that she was too awestruck to leave the makeshift theatre? Was it something as simple as being so high off the ground? Did the feeling of her wee feet dangling provide a powerful high only she could capture?

Maybe I've just gotten used to the weather. Maybe I just prefer a bigger stage. Maybe my mom's stories push me to explore rather than stay put. Maybe I prefer to have my feet on the ground.

Someday, I'll come back to that wooden trapezoid. My fingers won't trace the same patterns. That castle might belong to someone new. My mom could tell a different story. There won't be a book, a pillow, or a blanket. No stories will be read or performed. But, if it rains while I sit in this window, I will dangle my feet over the edge. And if I'm lucky, it'll Kerplunk, and I will giggle with older me.