It’s one of those days when the seams don’t fit. Maybe the rain shrunk the edges or they’re filled past flowing; either way the alignment is off. I’ll push and pull for a little while, and then turn back to the page. No matter the words, I’ll write each down with a little clickity-clack, because in the end they’ll make sense to someone.
I remember the day we were lost in a rose garden dream. Though nothing was in bloom, we could still smell the sweet scent. We watched the other patrons run, glancing briefly in our direction. The question in their eyes: why aren’t you moving? But we sat in the raspberry rain, drinking sangria and lattes laughing about the panic. And when the thunder rolled, we exchanged a knowing look; the power of the rumble flowing down to our toes while the rain tapped out a message on our backs.
We giggled at the sweet dedicated hostess braving the weather to reach our lone table. And then, at the busboy who asked half a dozen times if we wanted a seat inside; but we let the drips soak in, past the doubts, beyond the fear and sighed a little inside. We were mysterious and movie stars and those people who braved the lightening. In a garden of light, we counted each drop and when they stopped, we stood glancing at the stairs before turning to splash in puddles forming on the sidewalk; because that’s who we are: the puddle splashers, the rain dancers, the writers of life with a touch of love.
And if they could see, if they only knew…they would have stayed. Just for a moment, to find a puddle of their own to splash in.