Slowly the night descends on the quaint little town. A blanket changing hue steadily as far as one would stretch his gaze. A pale orange to a dull gray; and in the distance, a velvet-blue shade of darkness. The chatter of birds and the children reaching its final crescendo before the silent curtain call.

He would come and sit by his window sharp at 6 P.M. everyday. Up until 7 P.M. He could take no more, no less. This was his resilient struggle with himself to stay focused on reality. On the shapes and sounds, colors and raindrops. On the birds and children. To stay in some way, be it from his cage, connected to the world.

He would spend most of his day reading. At his age, it seemed the most apt thing to spend time on. Not to mention, it was less physically tiring than most other options. He tried to go for a walk everyday, but he was hardly regular. He was fairly fit, but age had begun to announce its victory long back. The trials of time showed in his evenly cracked skin. The hammers of sorrow left marks in his eyes. He had gotten used to not talking. Sometimes he'd read out passages from the book he was reading to remember what his voice sounded like.

He hardly ventured out of his hide-away apartment near the park. It was in a quiet area with the cane fields in the distance. He had taken to being a complete recluse since she died. She was the last to go. He had lost a lot of people over the years. Some to death, some to insanity, some to time. But up until her demise he had never really let the sadness grow in him.

At 5:45 PM, he would put the water to boil, make his tea a little stronger and take his seat. He would look out the window for one hour making observations in his head. Sometimes he would begin by taking in the entire scene at once and then zooming in on areas of interest. Other times he would have spent the entire hour with an unfocused stare digesting colors, shapes and thoughts. The small radio alarm went off everyday at 7 PM when he would get up from his chair and get back to whatever he was reading.

Today was different. It had been pouring for the past few days but today it had calmed down. The raindrops falling on his roof sounded like approaching footsteps, the air heavy with melancholy and regret. He put water to boil while the growing shadows were deciding which character to take on. He felt an odd feeling in his chest. It wasn't pain, neither was it the anxious tug he had grown accustomed to in his younger days. It wasn't really anything tangible. He felt strangely quiet and vaguely empty. He felt a silence in him, a hollow gap.

He knew today was different. He had known it the moment he had opened his eyes. He wondered if he was going to die today. Is that what this is?  But as the day passed, he became increasingly aware that this was not a feeling of premonition or a nervous wait for death. He knew that his hour with the world is what shall provide him the answer. He had been waiting a long while for 6 PM.

He poured himself the tea in a big mug, and took his routine seat. He looked out and almost immediately knew what the feeling was. It all made sense for a few seconds, and then failed to register anything in his lucid mind. He could see her clearly. In the rain. In the fields. He could see her dancing. Her face hidden behind her drenched hair but there was no doubt in his mind. It was her. It had to be.

He had not felt this in ages. Not happiness. More like a feeling of hope. Of a desperate risen-from-the-ashes hope. One that is often more powerful than the original hope, before it died and was reborn. He remembered the time they met. It had been raining much like today. A calm, gentle rain. Trying to make its place in the background than hammering drums in the spotlight. He remembered her face with little drops of water making their way around her cheeks and down her neck. Her embarrassed drenched stance as she accepted his offer for help. He remembered their marriage, the vows, the buddies and parties, the kids, planning the future, living a lesser present, and now rebuilding a hazy past.

He wanted to touch her skin. Hear her voice in his ears. Feel her presence as she walked around the room doing mundane chores. He missed her. Even if he would never accept it.
He remembered their daily routine life the most. Waking up and hearing the sounds of her bare feet in the kitchen. The carefully controlled sounds of the utensils in her delicate hands. He could close his eyes and a montage of her pictures, cropped and framed on the walls of his mind, would begin running instantly. He could never really recognize where those images were from. Most were at home he guessed, but were undeniably moments captured only by his mind. Moments that he never realized the importance of when he was living them.

She was dancing steadily. Her movements suggested a drunk exuberance, one of childhood or love. He had never seen her dance like this. It was a celebration. Her feet splashing water in a rhythmic pulse to the rain's firecracker metronome. Her arms swaying and flailing, a dance of freedom. 

She had left him a year and a half back. It had not been age, and it had not been illness. It was almost like she decided in a moment to move on. She had come silently from behind and hugged him while he was making himself tea, and it had been a long meaningful hug. She had smiled, asked him to make her a cup, and gone back to the room. When he had taken the tea to her, she was lying in bed. A gentle smile played on her lips. Her arms hung loosely by her side. She was gone. Her last smile and that last hug still linger in his head like bombs exploding from time to time. How can I forgive myself for not holding her longer in that final embrace?


But she cannot be real. Even if she is outside my window. Even if she is dancing within reach of me. Even if she is the only thing I look for every day from my window. She cannot be real. Maybe if I don't look, she'll go away?

He closed his eyes.
The tea had gone cold lying on the windowsill. He had not had a single sip.
The radio alarm went off. He opened his eyes, drew the shades and walked away from the window.

*

In The Rain - The Open Door Project

*

Lush gray morning. Curtains drawn. Rain-soaked leaves shiver.
An alarm coughs, spits out a tune and sighs.
Was that a knock?
It's too early. Must be the trees.

Dreams belong to a vaulted soldier. Is there really no more medicine?

There it is again.
Hello. Who is it?
A friend, if you will. But it's raining hard.
Come in, you must be soaked.

Dreams belong to a vaulted soldier? Where did I hear that.
The season dances again. Every damn year.

I'm sorry but I don't mean any bother.
It's raining today. I understand.
Did you like it?
What?
The music.
What music?
Music that was playing this morning. Hell, it's been playing for days.
Where?
Outside. You didn't hear it? It was loud as a war-cry.

Dreams belong to a vaulted soldier.
Nursery rhymes in minor keys. Hospital bills. Keys without names hanging by fragile threads on mantle-pieces of last autumn. Callused strings. Broken fingers.

The coffee-machine broke. Water?
Sure, why not. Water's good.

A mild shower. Silent after-party of gloomy clouds. Should we walk?
The wet smell of a soaked earth. I can hear it now. My god, it IS loud. But it's nice. Like an orange sky.
That's more like it. Can you see it too?
What?
A story perhaps.
A story?
Sure. There are stories everywhere.

Lush gray bursting heavy gloomy shining smiling glazed afternoons. A walk too long.

A bald patch of land.
A purple afterglow.
Dead silent air, a faint scent of musk. Late evening rising in the east.
Words form in vapor trails. Conversations hang making rings in deep green trees.

Why didn't you come in earlier? You were soaked when you got in.
You didn't open the door.

*