Rain

Rain pelts your windows, smudging panes, making what's familiar look a masquerade. Single-minded droplets streak single file toward your soggy soil, but they'll find no answers here. Nothing's planted. What grows here was kin, and our time here has reached its end.

Life stretched us out, like saltwater taffy, pulled in different directions. Therese headed for the coast and I chased my New York City minutes. We visited all we could, worrying every visit might be the last.

Life has a way of doing what it wants.

All that's left in me puddles at my feet, tears cold as rain thirsting to be absorbed into a next life. I let them go. Wishing them well. Thanking them for the privilege.

Paperwork's filed. Signed and sealed. Deal is done. Tomorrow I'll be homeward bound, the idea of home fogging up my rearview mirror.

I jiggle my keys—your keys—to find the match.

Soon enough entry is granted and memories flood, a thousand versions of you colliding into me where I live and breathe.

Your foyer's smaller, and far more precious, than I'd remembered.

Years ago now, the season of suffering dashed in, making such a fuss, smashing hopes of playing in your garden with your cats and you, we small oafs sporting traces of your eyes and your smile and your high cheekbones across our kid faces, and proudly so. We'd stomp and smash, goofy tigers and crazy monkeys, wildly exploring your five acres, climbing infinite trees and scaring up ghosts and nosy neighbors.

Even now the scent of rain jars me and I am transported to those precious moments when you'd stop to smell the gardenias and the hellebores. You taught us youngsters everything we needed to know.

Be kind.

Do right, especially when it's hard.

Share your chocolate with your sister.

All I can think about when I'm here is you, laughing into the downpour, your robin's egg blues singing, your bright green galoshes thwapping, that ridiculous jumbo umbrella twirling, flicking rain without a care.

You won't melt. You're made of stronger stuff.

Brush it off.

Dance!

Off you went, sloshing triumphantly down the avenue, corner store breads sticking their freshly baked buns out of the brown paper bag. Good sniffs followed you everywhere. Everywhere.

Tee and I would be dripping with hope for warm bites of buttered toast and your strawberry jam, taking it for granted you'd be here to taste it, too.

But that was long ago. We've made our peace now.

Your yellow kitchen testifies to a long-gone era and I can't believe how long it's been. Can't help but smile to recall how staunchly you dismissed a microwave—"not in my house!"

Every treat, every dish, was made by hand.

I place your key on the kitchen counter. And feel overwhelmed to accept this gift. These final hours are mine alone to walk your halls again, creaking coming more from my old hips than your walnut floorboards.

I know it in my bones, I'll bring the good everywhere I go. Just like you taught me. And you'll be with me for every stride.

I close the door, gently, behind me, smiling into the rain, noticing the clouds ahead are slowly breaking.

___________________

Copyright © 04/30/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.