Prose:  Washed Out

Rain. The heavy pitter-patter outside. On the roof. In the garden. On the terrace. Filling what it can and running down, over, around what it can’t.
And it doesn’t matter now. From the flat roof, yesterday I could see far across and I saw a light wink out in the dusk. Too bad, too good, too gone.

Around here the heat hung above the sky with the haze that turned all the sunsets orange. It fell with the night, like now, descending in a wave making all sweat before it. Except tonight. For the rain.
I can’t pretend I didn’t feel anything, and who would miss a knife that had been withdrawn from the wound? No, you wouldn’t, but you’d feel its absence. It came, it went, and left a memory in its wake.

On Saturday I would go down to the river. It’s far enough from these low hot hills, not out of sight, but far enough. To be away. But this is my home at least for now and of course I can bear the yard and the abundant verdant vines, the crunch of gravel and the breeze that picks up in the late evening. Sometimes.

Because just a day or two ago it wasn’t there. And oh we suffered. I sat beside the bath, dipping my head into a water filled tub and letting it drip from my hair to the floor boards and thin rug.

Now there was no one except strange beetles for company, but I was healing, or the surf hadn’t crashed in my heart. One of the two.

Maybe I’m not making sense. Maybe I don’t expect to. Maybe I made the most sense I ever have and this summer I sank it, an ace from an empty sleeve - I wore t-shirts - slapped down and a cheer from an empty room.

Yeah the door had closed. But mine was now open and I could see, and hear, the heavy pitter-patter outside. Rain

∞  Last edit/update on: 14 / 3 / 2023