i must have dozed off for a while because at about four, i wake up to the roar of the rain and this piercing giggle from a little girl. i look out of the window and there she is, drenched, her arms raised, like she is talking to the wet air or declaiming or just playing statue in the rain.
the concrete curbside now rivers with a rushing wet darkness. and the dark haired girl, still smitten with the rain, just stands there. on her feet wrinkles a seemingly plastic spread while the brave scant light of the afternoon insist to curl heavenwards despite the weight of the rain. she looks like a dream or a miracle, which is the same thing, i suppose, in this suddenly rainy, summer afternoon.
in the deafening cloudburst, i imagine a tiny gash in the sky to allow a sudden prayer to seep in. for how can i not pray for this little girl to not grow up fast? this little girl whose head, despite the rain, is still dry, armored with the halo of her warm dreams.
