And the Rain Keeps Falling
Sitting under the dying cherry tree, crushing the
mildewed pink petals and rotting wild cherries
further into the clover, weeds, and mud masquerading
as grass, leaning into the rusted chain fence, digging
into my t-shirt and skin, I drop a ripped and water logged
paperback with little interest.
Two dogs rush from one end of the hilly yard to the other,
hiding in the overgrown foliage and chasing each other
in turn around the wilting white flowering tree whose name
in twenty years no one has bothered to learn. Content with their
lot in life and for once ignoring me, I gaze at the sky gray for
days with the promise of rain, but never coming. The heat
and humidity weigh on my skin, bringing sweat and discomfort
in waves. I close my eyes with little interest to the world
to which I am a part, to annoyed and angry to fall into a
daydream and to agitated to sleep.
Summer has burned the world, making everything die
too soon. The yard has suffered many years under
uncaring hands that prefer idleness to weeding or watering.
Little real grass grows with the holes, wild flowers, and
poisonous strawberries squished by padded dog
feet. The normal smell of overpowering honeysuckles
that has haunted the place for years are laying in
a dump with bushes of staining ink berries
that had been used for crude paint and doll
tea parties. The clutter of the yard is trimmed,
making it appear sparse rather then
orderly and kept.
Inside the brick house that the yard engulfs
boxes are piled disorderly, packed with everything
from toiletries to books, while new paint addicts
the owners. Two rooms are laid with rich fake wood,
dusty with newness. The closets in one are empty,
clothes given away. Unneeded, she had said stuffing
everything into white trash bags, just junk now. Your
mother and you dont need any of his things anymore.
The books that laid around the room neatly boxed,
with trinkets I had given him, to be sold.
The only remains of him are the stolen sweater,
And the three dried roses in the Styrofoam cup
in a grimy bathroom she sniffs at whenever
she passes. Prim and proper as ever, she orders
our lives as if we are her servants, slack jaw
yokels that need to be constantly told what to
do. My mother follows, as always, unable to make
a single decision without her prodding, and my words
fall on deaf ears, prompting my escape.
Finally the promised rain falls, awaking my dark mood
as the land floods with its power. Mosquito bites and scratches
mark my legs as the dogs whine in front of the new white doors,
so out of place in the weathered brick. My name falls
from the upstairs windows, telling me to come in.
Yet, looking at the life set in front of me, my mad eyes
shed tears with the acid water and I cant image myself
getting up and walking into the now strange house
to finish the work of erasing his presence.