Still it Rains

Sounds of rain fill every space in the dark and with it, the knowing that it will never again be just rain filling in all the spaces in the dark.

A warm front pushes north to bring the last breath of a dying summer. She said my description of autumn was “positively Emily Dickinson” which made me think of one who would shutter at the ascription but more importantly, it made me realize that I had dropped down into prose-land in writing a simple letter. Which author is at play? Which love is yearning; which is faithful?

Failing eyes, failing teeth, failing skin. My hair won't go gray but will eventually turn white like my grandmother's. Our matriarch is 97 years old and prays the rosary every day. Devout and unwavering. Most hold her up as ideal but her unswerving sight has left me unable to draw near. To hold only one way of seeing carries consequences. Some you know. Some you forget over time.

Dawn arrives in muted gray. Still it rains, bringing down more needles and leaves. Pine, oak, maple. Repeat.

In a rain-doused dream, I was presented a treasure beyond reckoning. A flood took away all my strength, revealing Soul Herself. In radiance, She took all but a tiny wisp of life to leave behind in a patient dream. She greets the Godhead and they slip away into a secret room. She puts on a robe of magnificence and royalty, and They, the Godhead, give Her everything She wants and asks.

Oats for breakfast with apple slices on the side. I shower and dress for errands in the rain. I feel pretty today and I think it has to do with the dream.