Rain

            It seemed like yesterday that he spoke to her for the last time. In truth, he did miss her. But it was a truth he’d try not to acknowledge to others, least of all himself. But if all of his memories were of their fights, what kind of nostalgia made sense to hold on? If bitterness was the lingering aftertaste of their relationship, wasn’t it better that he was out of it?

            But he remembered the physiciality of it all; he remembered the touch of her face as he wiped away tears. Of her hand as they walked together side by side. The softness of her shoulders as he gave her a massage.

            It was a dump of a day, with the sidewalks wet from rain and runoff. The roads were slick and cars would splash water onto unsuspecting pedestrians. A day to sit in with a cup of tea and a Victorian novel. As he walked, his umbrella began to bubble from the wind.

            There’s sometimes solace in contemplaying past sadness. It can bring an indescribable feeling of having had an ineffable experience. At times, it can gnaw at the self, but it can also transform, enrich, and sooth. Like the song of a caged bird, sadness is less of an expression and more of a lifestyle the bird has developed.

            Rain flowed into the gutter in a stream.

            Sadness is like water—it fills the shape of any vessel. What was empty becomes full; where once was innocence, there is now the memory of the past. With each hurt, the volume of sadness increases, until it is overflowing. Tears are merely saline from the precipice of the heart.

            There’d be a field with poppies and wheat. It’d be elysium. The wind would blow like a ghost across the field of golden grass. The sun would make the hue of the hill even more brillant, and he’d feel the entirety of the moment.

            Just as he daydreamed he saw the swaying of trees in the corner of his vision. Here was some peace or something like it. The difficulty of lying still, he thought, is that it is almost impossible for everything to be still. Still, the warmth of the sun and the grass would greet him like an old friend, like a hug that promised nothing but sweet relief.