Wednesday, 2 October 2013

The Word-a-day Writing Challenge

Day Ten: Rain

Some people
move through their lives
like cats uncurling from a nap—
casual, refreshed
strewn over furniture.

Others are hurtled
like a prairie storm across the horizon, spat out
with a cackle in bullets of rain
churning through fields and fork lightening.

My mother grew up on a Sunday, typical
in most ways but one.
All at once, her husband was dead.

Her life split open like an egg against
the edge of an autumn afternoon, all things
tender and sacred gushing
over the teeth of a crumbling shell.

The sound it made was shrill
and widening, a scream full of everything
she'd never said nor would.
It tore through her body like an electrical current
wild and infinite, hell-bent and
racing out ahead of her whole life
to find him, to tell him every word
and every whisper—

the symphony of her love for him.

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