By now, you should know the significance of rainbows and my son for me. If not, you can find it here, here, and here. Most people also don't know this, but a baby born after a loss is called a rainbow baby. Technically, I have two of those, Alexis and Charlie, though not many people know that either.
If you would have told me after my son died that I would soon become obsessed with the white light of the sun being refracted through raindrops into something colorful in the sky, I would have looked at you askew. Of course, if you would have told me that I would be willing to get twice daily injections of heparin into my pregnant stomach to keep my body from killing a baby after that, I would have looked at you the same way...point is, it has become a pretty significant thing for me to see a rainbow.
I always loved storms. As a child, I would sit in our front room and look out the window as they came rolling in from the west. I used to freak my sister out by jokingly running into the middle of our lawn and licking my finger and holding it up in the air for the lightning to come strike me. (I am strangely confused as to why it did not, but perhaps it was because I was still an innocent child? I don't tempt fate now, I tell you what...) Of course, I always came in before the rain started, because ew. Water. But even the torrential downpours that accompanied a thunderstorm were fascinating to me, from the dry safety of our house, of course.
I honestly don't remember seeing that many rainbows as a child. Most likely explanation is that I simply wasn't looking for them. I didn't run outside when the sun started shining in the west and it was still dark in the east to look for them. They were no where near as meaningful at that time as they are now for me. I've said it before, I am fully aware that the times in my life with rainbows are probably just as much a coincidence as the times with fire (and I haven't even talked about all the fire alarm drama, either...). I like to think that the rainbows aren't, that my son is still with me even as his ashes sit on my dead people's shelf in my living room. (For the record, he is the only literal dead person on this shelf. It's not like I am collecting corpses to pose on this shelf in a variety of positions. It has other mementos from our passed on loved ones, as well as his urn. I strangely feel the need to clarify this for you people.)
I'm really hoping that the fire shit isn't like a sign from hell, though. That would not strike me in the feels nearly as much as the whole rainbow thing.