I remember the rain, the gentle yet relentless rain, a percussive background to your rattled breaths. You were leaving, and water was everywhere. Tapping against the window. Filling your lungs. Running down my cheeks. Even my dreams were of a tidal wave.
Later that day, the sun had set but the rain persisted. There were beads of water clinging to the body bag as you rolled from your home into the car that took your body to the scientists that could learn from you, and from the terrible cancer that never flinched. One of your final mandates had been to hang Christmas lights, and the lights stayed on continuously during our vigil through your final days. The droplets on the plastic bag reflected the glow of multi-colored orbs, a million tiny rainbows glimmering in the darkness.
Its raining in San Antonio today, two years after you died. I stand outside and let a few drops of rain kiss my face.
I have lost you, but still, there is snow and ice and rain and steam and babbling streams and crashing waves. I seek waterfalls in the desert, I soak in my bathtub in the quiet of the night. I breathe billowy puffs of air in the cold. The water still holds me, and and clings to my sadness with the light of a million tiny rainbows.
JANELLE MARIE SHINER