Please Come Back Another Day

Response to prompt #35, Write as Rain 

Rain, rain go away, 
come again another day...

I know the children who sing this catchy ditty don't mean to hurt my feelings.

But they do. And they have for centuries.

Their mothers guard them against me, like I'm liquid poison falling from the sky. They wrap them in plastic rain ponchos, force galoshes over their feet, shield them with rainbow colored umbrellas, scold them when they jump in the puddles I leave for their enjoyment.

I want to scream, "Mothers! Let those children puddle jump! Can't you see how much fun they are having?"

If only I had a voice--one they could hear anyway.

It's so disheartening to see their little faces pressed up against the front windows of their home, wistfully staring through the glass, trying to catch glimpses of the sun, evidence that I am about to indeed go away and stop ruining their fun.

The other day, one of those children snuck outside when I came to visit. She was different. Difficult, the mothers cluck. A rebel.

She quietly closed the front door behind her and gingerly tip toed down the stairs of her front porch, hesitating on the last step, looking up at the edge of the awning keeping her dry. She sighed as she turned her glance toward the door.

Please don't turn back, I begged.

Her head snapped forward again. Did she actually hear me?

Then, a wide, toothy smile spread over her chubby little face. I believe I detected mischievousness in that grin. She leapt off the the concrete and ran right to the middle of the yard. As she lifted her face toward the sky to greet me, she closed her eyes, her impish smile turning into one of sheer delight. She lifted her arms straight out, palms facing up, and began spinning.

She kept spinning as I showered her with my gentle kisses, both of us in a state of sheer bliss. She was free from the constraints of ridiculous adult rules; I was freed from my loneliness. I drenched her brown hair, but she didn't care that it matted to her face. Her yellow sundress clung to her small frame, yet she still danced.


"Katrina Marie!" her mother yelled from the front door, breaking the spell. "Get back in the house this instant! You are such a naughty, naughty girl!"

She stopped in her tracks and hung her head. "I'm in for it," she whispered. "But, it was worth it."

Sighing, she trudged back toward her angry mother, perched at the open door with a towel. When she reached the door, her mother dried her off violently, as if she had to wipe the wickedness off of her before allowing her into the house.

Just as she stepped back inside, she turned, longing taking over her countenance. "Please come back another day."

As she blew a kiss, her mother gave her a confused look.

I knew the kiss was meant for me.

I will come back another day, Katrina. Just for you. 

Technicolor

Response to Prompt 35: Write as Rain

Technicolor

Pouring down from the sky

like magic, the opposite of disappearing

ink I fall in droplets, beads, brush strokes,

and paint your world from dusty cocoa,

sandy brown sugar, to rich devil's food

cake and dark wet coffee grounds. Muted

shades of washed out yellow blaze into

brights of grassy, sun-drenched greens.

The flowers bloom, the bees buzz, the

grass grows, and the trees are alive

because I fall.

Literature I Love

Response to Prompt 34: A Sentimental Education

If I'm to be completely honest, I struggled with this prompt for a long time. I even wrote a full response on an airplane flight this past weekend, but I think I'll leave that one in my journal. It may sound horrible, but I really can't identify anything specific I learned about love through literature.

I know part of the problem is I'm not as well read as people think I am. I didn't grow up loving the act of reading. Don't get me wrong, I liked a good book and I remember childhood favorites, but I was a really active kid who didn't like to sit still much. I don't recall being a bookworm or choosing reading over other activities, most of the time. It's troublesome to me, makes me feel like a bit of a fraud. I love to read and write now, and I'm a teacher, and forever a student, so people I know often associate me with books and libraries and reading. I'm flattered by that, truly. But I didn't learn to love reading until I was older.

I could get into a long explanation of the fact that I come from a highly literate family, never struggled with reading, had great teachers, and did very well in school. But I'll simply leave this comment, so these ideas can be dismissed as "reasons" I may not have enjoyed reading as much when I was a child.

Back to the prompt. I thought laboriously over books I did read, and what I learned about love from them. I continued to come up empty. So I revisited the prompt for inspiration, and found that I was more inspired by the question the author (Helen) thought the article was asking. "When did you fall in love with literature?" This is the question I chose to answer...

Three works made me fall in love with literature. Others, earlier on, whet my appetite. But these three, these are the ones.

I
Lord of the Flies might be the first high school assigned book I read cover to cover without the schedule of assignments from my teacher. I clearly remember it being the first book I loved so much, that it didn't matter to me what I had to read for school the next day, or what I might be quizzed on. The characterization, and the lens on human nature made this a page turner for me. At the time I was thinking I wanted to be a psycho-biologist so I suppose it makes sense. But I felt like I could picture the island, and every single boy who survived that plane crash. I hurt for them and angered with them. I felt like I lived inside the book the entire time I was reading it. And I learned, perhaps truly for the first time, how disappointing a movie can be when you loved the book so much! Though I had seen the original black and white, my junior year of high school a modern version was released. Of the two, the older version was better, but neither one of them even came close to as good as the book.

II
I recall pulling it off the shelf in my sister's room. I wanted to be more of a reader. I wanted to enjoy reading more as a leisure activity like she did. I think she recommended it, maybe not. But just because it was on the shelf in her room, it was good enough for me. Fahrenheit 451 was a book I read sitting on the floor of the bathroom in my mom's house. I think I finished it in two or three nights, which was record breaking for me. The symbolism, the themes of censorship and illiteracy... funny how for me this book instilled a love of literature!  I think this was the beginning of my propensity toward dystopian literature and movies.

III
As a kid growing up in NY, we visited Broadway theaters at least once a year, usually more. And of course, I read Shakespeare and other plays in school. But it wasn't until I read the play 12 Angry Men, that I became appreciative of the play as a literature genre. The use of a single room as the setting for almost the entire play. The drama of a single issue being discussed around a table. No real action. No effects, just men talking. Conversation teasing out human stereotypes, belief systems, and group think. Pure genius.

I'm not sure how satisfying of a read this post is, but it is what it is... three pieces of literature that weren't just "favorite books" I read, but literary works that made me love good literature. Oh yeah, and I was super excited to find this... coming any day now. I sure hope it's good. I don't expect better, just good! Preview looks promising.

Nothing Will Change

 Response to Prompt #35 "Right as Rain"

Nothing Will Change

It was part of the cycle. Part of what I do – be present in all kinds of situations.  Experience all kinds of emotions. I partake in an unusual way, as sometimes I am intrusive and reviled, but occasionally welcomed.  I never know.

I am rain.  I am river. I am evaporation.  I am cloud.  Sometimes I am snow.

I’ve been around for much longer than I can remember. Yet somehow, there is a day that seems to stand out above all. It was a day I came to a small town during a ceremony. The townspeople had gathered to see some of their sons off to war. The band was playing, flags were waving, families were hugging, and children cheered the soldiers on.

One couple was off to the side, far from the crowd, kissing madly. Then I heard the young soldier say, “Dance with me,” as he took his wife’s hand and led to her a place on the platform. There, in front of the town, they danced their hearts out, as if they were the only two people on earth. As I rained on them, they seemed more and more full of joy. It was unusual in this type of circumstance. Yet, their love was palatable. I could feel it as I struck their skin.

It was love like I’d never seen before, and don’t think I’ve ever seen since.

As they danced, I heard the whispered promises he gave her: 

“Love is strange.  But ours is forever.”

“Nothing will change.”

“I will return.”

But the last was a lie he didn’t mean to tell.

They danced until they were soaked, he in his uniform, she in her long dark dress and chunky shoes. They danced until that train whistle blew demanding they separate.

“Nothing will change,” he promised again, his blue eyes shining.  He waved goodbye to her from the train window. She was nothing but smiles. She believed him.

It was to be a year.  But the years passed, and he did not return. 

He did not return when the other town’s sons came home. 

He did not return when the Vietnam conflict came to a close.

What happened to him was never determined. He was another MIA.  As an airman, he was most likely shot down and never recovered.

I cycled around, watching this young woman through the years. She aged. She lived alone, never marrying again.  She was waiting…always.

She did not receive a survivor’s gratuity, since his whereabouts were never confirmed. She never moved from their home.  I heard her tell her friends she needs to be where he can find her. She told them she couldn’t see the rain, hear the thunder, or the whistle of the train without feeling him close to her.  It was a constant reminder, both painful and comforting.

She cries like the rain, still, when I come around.  Sometimes she dances around her screened in porch, holding her hands to her heart, smiling joyfully like that summer day. Sometimes she doesn’t come outside to see me, and I cannot blame her. 

It seems evident after these decades that she knows he isn’t going to return. Yet she lives every day like he might.

He promised her nothing would change. And it hasn’t really.

She has done her best to make that promise come true.

#

Narrative derived from this music video:

 

Prompt #35--Write as Rain

We've all heard the expression, right as rain to refer to those times when everything fits or comes together well. I feel like we had one of those days at Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary yesterday. The day was indeed right as rain.

As I pondered this expression, I thought, Why not write as rain? Full disclosure, I chuckled at my cleverness--then promptly blew it off.

But, I kept coming back to it. I couldn't shake the idea, so I knew there had to be something there. I think it will be a cool albeit challenging exercise to write from the perspective of rain. After all, rain cleanses, refreshes, supports life.

You choose the format: journal entry, photo journal, found poem, original poem, song lyric, short story. The only requirement is, rain is the speaker or narrator.

I can't wait to read what we come up with!