When rain comes, my world goes silent.
I hone my ear to the drops slipping to earth, burring the tap tap tap against my windowpane in my bones, and step into a revelry that turns my skin inside out, so I may feel the mist inside my marrow. So softly it falls, cleansing the grime I have carried with me, sticky and held down by the lack of water in this land-locked place.
Still, rain is rain, wherever it falls.
In early evening hours, the sky is darker than normal, sodden with clouds ready to be wrung out on the space that pleads with open arms for exfoliation.
This stream ignites my eyes in a ponderous frame of mind. As gloomy, sleep-swept hours spill, I become wide awake, imagining. There are some pictures that must stay forming in the still, wet world.
It is the same here, in a strange state, as back where I grew up. This gives me a sliver of comfort, of serenity. To know the rain follows me as I go, that when it pours I can collect a cupful and be reminded that my palms still taste the rain, still spill thanks, that my heart can fall enchanted in this small, dry apartment as it always did when I was home. Similar droplets collect in the birdbath that’s chipped but still standing erect in my mother’ garden, same stream of wind pushing the water through the evergreens at the base of the driveway, same soggy landscape observed by hearts that pulse in time with each spray of glittered shower.
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