Rain

Today, it is dew that you awaken to, a morning wrapped in cloud, soft notes from some distant music. Yesterday's weather report said it will rain today, and you are certain it will. All signs point at raindrops, sing of wetness, hint at fluid things. The yielding heart, yielding to forgotten days. Time slipping by hands that can barely hold. Tears.

Your consciousness still shakes at the (fragmented) memory of a strange dream. There is no sense in piecing the shards together, but you allow yourself--for a few moments--to waft in that barely perceptible line between sleep and wakefulness.

But broken things get lost in the language of the everyday.

And soon, rain, its drops hitting the roofs, the windows, the grounds, soft patter on hard surfaces, prying open what will yield, permeating what will not; washing away the dust, brightening the weariness; so that what was dull soon sparkles, what was withering gets revived.

You understand this: there is reason for the stillness in the day before; you, who have long believed that always, always, there are (heavy) things suspended in the unmoving air. You are grateful. You have been taught that what has gone is gone, and today is here, now.

(In a parallel universe, things may be different; but all the same, it is there, not here.)

In the distance, a door shuts. Tonight, the moon will be her usual, lovely self, and you remind yourself to notice.