Prose

Rain Down

The rain pelts the window sill. Each drop, a pebble thrown at the glass to get your attention. Each one of them knocks the pane and stirs you more than the last. They come only as the messenger but who is throwing them? What stirs you? Everything else around is quiet—a quiet that’s not of rest but of absence; hiding away and weathering the storm. It’s the quiet that eerily echoes down your spine. Except for each ping on the glass. Each ping rings truth and tears at you.

You stand and grasp at the edges of the window, wanting to invite the rain in, wanting to invite something in. But the window is what’s protecting you from the frigid mystery of it all. You peer through the pane to discover the truth the rain delivers. The window is dutiful in lending you a glimpse of where the drops fall from but the pouring down limits your view. The drops stream down the window and pile at the base of the sill, collecting, welling up until it breaks the levee and pours over the edge.

To be with the rain and for it to shower down on you with a cold, cleansing force is what your mind holds as you close your eyes. To wash you and take your filth, through the gutter and the grate, underground. Let it rain down and stir you up.