Marian H. Rowe

rain… the kind that winked at you with its fine eyelashes that you felt all over your face.

rain… that made you eighteen again and able to fall morbidly in love with someone who only thought about you when it was very necessary.

rain… that pulled the clouds down low over the rooftops and veiled the trees’ faces and threw a purifying gray shadow over the form of every stranger.

rain… that sat alongside as you promised your Father you would make this work because it was what your father wanted.

rain… with the soldered memories of a haunting pain that almost killed you and seems quaint now because it was only inside.

rain… listening in at windows and doorways hushing over the growing suspicion that something was not right.

rain… to give you something good to remember those gray years by.

Copyright © 2021 Marian H. Rowe