rain

It is raining but I can’t feel the heavy drops because I am standing beneath a tree, the leaves are shielding me from the wet. I can hear the rush of the fall wind, filled with moisture and restlessness; it spits stray drops into my hair, my face, my eyes. My glasses are fogged up so that I can’t see to recognize the face of a friend less than an arm’s length away.

It is raining and I am soaking wet. I am not standing under the shelter of the tree, I am waiting, in the open. As I wait the rain works its way through my cotton t-shirt and my suede shoes, sculpts my hair into a strangely combed Zen garden, wipes the mascara off my lashes and leaves it smeared on my cheekbones instead. I can feel the restless winds pick up as I wait.

It is raining but I no longer notice the drops because I could not get any wetter if I tried. My t-shirt is transparent and my shoes squish and squash with every step I take. It is a slow, patient rain now, waiting for me. What it is waiting for and why, I do not know.

It is raining and I am warm and dry and not contemplating another trip outside at least until the morning. I can hear the restless winds whisper as I sink into bed, a different kind of soaking seeping into the cotton of my t-shirt, into the flannel of my pajamas, into the cold side of the pillow as my cheek traces leftover mascara onto the clean white. My suede shoes are drying as am I; my hair leaves a damp patch where it rests, the Zen garden now combed into manageability. I settle into the dry dark and let the rain, rain.

It is raining and I am asleep, vaguely aware of the gentle rustle of the restless winds as I dream, letting my mind drip-drop from reality to unconscious. I am in the damp, foggy thick of life, waiting for the rain to come and go as I study patterns in the weather.