On the third day of the third month, she became the rain. (Fables have been written about such things, but she actually lived it.) In the dark hours of the night, when a damp weight sat heavy in the clouds and the whole earth was a wide mouth, gaping, inhaling slowly, longing for moisture; in the quiet hours, when nothing was still and yet everything was, she climbed down from her bed and pressed her bare feet flat against the floor. She sobbed as she did so, for she knew each step was in a way, her last connection with this earth. She relished the tingle in her feet, the almost sensual way her naked skin pressed up again floorboards and pulled back again, like a kiss. She was; and, in that moment, she would be forever.
The sky took her willingly. It only asked for her embrace. As soon as it felt her standing there, the accompanying change in the air, and the little sparkle of electricity - it snatched.
Blindly, it snatched.
She was never heard from again. Or perhaps that's incorrect. One cannot simply leave behind the earth silent as a mouse. (And then, even mice make noise.) For a while she remained the intangible connection between the heavens and the earth. Thunder was a rumble in her belly or a murmur of indecision. He would often look out his misty windows and imagine her, her limbs outstretched and fluid from cloud to mountain top. Yet when he tried to find it in himself to cry, his eyes remained dry. He imagined that she had taken all his tears with her to tuck them in a pocket of sky where they might fall upon flowers.
But but but why begin at anything other than the beginning?
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Oh Lord, Michael hated the rain. He did not see the strange mysticism or the sensual cleansing, and he most certainly did not understand its romantic associations.
The sky took her willingly. It only asked for her embrace. As soon as it felt her standing there, the accompanying change in the air, and the little sparkle of electricity - it snatched.
Blindly, it snatched.
She was never heard from again. Or perhaps that's incorrect. One cannot simply leave behind the earth silent as a mouse. (And then, even mice make noise.) For a while she remained the intangible connection between the heavens and the earth. Thunder was a rumble in her belly or a murmur of indecision. He would often look out his misty windows and imagine her, her limbs outstretched and fluid from cloud to mountain top. Yet when he tried to find it in himself to cry, his eyes remained dry. He imagined that she had taken all his tears with her to tuck them in a pocket of sky where they might fall upon flowers.
But but but why begin at anything other than the beginning?
------
Oh Lord, Michael hated the rain. He did not see the strange mysticism or the sensual cleansing, and he most certainly did not understand its romantic associations.
