In this rain I see the same persistence of time, and words we had in the past. The blessing of water that rusts the keys and drenches the soil, too hard to dig that grave and now too slippery and deceptive. The moment in time connected only to sorrow, and passage, and leaving. The drop of metal onto the wood, not muffled by the sound of flower petals falling onto the coffin. The awkward sound, like an exclamation mark in the middle of the long word. And tonight the rain brings the same awkward sound into my head. Memories are strange threads that never choose the right moment to stitch you one. It’s cold and in my soul I am finding that old warmth and wondering at the same time, why is it here? I buried it long ago. But never, it seems, for too long, or for long enough.