But Rain Water is Dirty

i. Mom told me that rain-

water is dirty, and I shouldn’t stand around on rainy afternoons

with hands cupped to the clouds, collecting it.


I didn’t really believe her. Rain will wash me, I

iterated to her innocently, eyebrows peaked in cheeky bliss,

watching as a funny look came over her face, and she

stepped away from the veranda. Letting the rain wash me



ii. Dad let me stand in the rain and I let the water slide against my skin,

barely-there hairs creating little resistance, offering myself and the frames of my

spectacles and the fabric of my clothing to Mother Nature’s wetness.


Although I was forced to scrub down later on,

standing in the rain was something of a free, readily available,

au naturale washing for me.


iii. I stand in the rain for another day, letting my

umbrella, spokes bent, fall beside me

and clatter on the pavement. Just an added

sound to the orchestra of rain drops

packing down inches of grey cement; the

sound of people’s chatter and the heavy thunk of their

glares as they land onto my slouched shoulders in the rain

are just an additional thrum to the chorus of

rainy suicides.



iv. I believe my mom in the way that rain-water is dirty,

but I will let my children stand in it still,

for we are dirtier.


unedited picture of raindrops residing on leaves

IMG-20160604-WA0024.jpgit’s been a while; how has everyone been doing? i have had the craziest week and am extremelyextremely glad that it’s six on a Saturday evening. Have a good rest, people!


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