How to slow a rainstorm:
watch.
Watch the way the water falls.
Watch the way the raindrops catch on leaves,
and cling,
then slide
away.
How to slow a rainstorm:
watch.
Watch the way the water falls.
Watch the way the raindrops catch on leaves,
and cling,
then slide
away.
I’m leaving.
We lost.
It’s over.
You’re fired.
He’s gone.
In a split instant – in the slender space between just a couple of words – our lives change.
Some changes mount gradually, nearly imperceptibly, over time while others punch through like a slug to the gut.
My eyes are shoved shut so tight I can physically feel the skin pulling taught behind my ears.
The first pristine pricks of the threat of a shattering cry are stabbing at the backs of my thin pulsing eyelids.
Fuck.
Even against the massive concrete resistance I’ve barricaded up, or maybe because of it, scorching tears pierce through and streak inky, crooked, blackened tracks across my cheeks.
Every drop of pent-up anger, shame, loss, greed, regret, jealousy and confusion plunges out of me onto the hardwood floor beneath my naked knees.