In the rain, the flames never win, the fire struggles against water, steam hisses, flames die down, the rain erases everything.
In the rain, our footprints are washed away, where we come from fades to black, the path becomes a puddle becomes a river becomes a lake. We do not know which way we came from.
In the rain, our voices are muted, drowned out by the sounds of falling water, we sometimes cannot hear one another. We sometimes cannot hear ourselves, and in that moment we wonder if we have spoken, and if we spoke, what we have said.
In the rain, we lose sight of our brother, we lose sight of ourselves. We lose sight of what ties us to one another, the strings between our arms that keep us bound, a unit. In the rain, we cannot see these strings, but we tug gently, once, twice, and our brother tugs back, two quick nods of his arm to reassure us that he is still there.
In the rain, mothers cling tighter to their babies, hold their sweet faces closer to their chests, to keep them safe and dry. In the rain, their babies cannot see the tears they shed, water returning to water.
In the rain, we long to be washed clean, to be born anew from our pain and suffering, to walk forth into sunlight and be warmed and reborn, but in the rain we sometimes forget how to hope for that warmth, we cannot remember the shape of its touch.
wordspill 