Death Song
The spring rain comes in buckets. One drop is more than enough to thoroughly soak everything. I hear the rain’s heavy boots thundering on my roof, and I close my windows lest I get all wet. Rain or shine, I wake acutely aware of my fragile life, which is then confirmed by dire headlines and by the futile means we are all practicing, just trying to hold the precarious order together. My daily struggles point to my fear, and my fear points to a place on my back I cannot reach. There is a part of me I am unable to see or touch, the same place the rain finds easily, which I will know too, after my death.
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