Deluge

Lately, I haven’t written much here. Not because words have eluded me but because life has been a deluge.  I have been umbrella-less, soaked, face upturned, eyes closed, experiencing a light drizzle matting down my hair, and, other moments, being subjected to stinging, pelting torrents.  In between the tumultuous extremes, I have felt warmth breaking through the lumpy, gray clouds.  The sensation of sunlight on my eyelids that have caused them to fly open.  When I have looked up through dampened lashes, I have glimpsed rainbows.  Day after day after day.  Not one or two or three, more like five or six.  Extravagant jewels in the skies.  At times, only a fragment of multi-colored hues, but rainbows just the same.  I have savored them, letting my gaze remain fixed on their transparent beauty.  My emotions have soared amidst the slowly moving skyscape, flitting here and there, bathed in flecks of violet and indigo.  A sense of hope has permeated my spirit.  There is no shaking it off, no angry skies that can blanket it, no lightening zig zags that can electrocute it.  Anticipation remains, expectant, receptive to whatever it is that is now concealed by a watery, dribbling mist.

Gray Mist

This morning was a foggy one.  Not too common for South Florida.  I still get caught up in the emotions of the mist just as I did when I was a child.  I used to be enthralled with the ghostly weather and would scurry to a quiet place to create, pencil in hand, scratching a mysterious story into existence.  As an adult, I still feel a connection with that young girl.  Only now, in addition to the dash to my quiet place, I acknowledge the uncanny sensation of ties to those who passed.  Who are now caught in a misty limbo of sorts, misconceived as haunters, who are the ones haunted.  I can relate to their restlessness, their shadows.  Memories, donned in disguise, creep in and stir up latent emotions that persist under the conscious radar.  I am left, like a viewer seated on a cold, padded folding chair, in a darkened room.  An old projector flashes images in black and white on the bare wall in front of me:  wet children in soggy socks smiling, laughing their way down a slip and slide,  mockingbirds shrilly calling, waiting, fluttering to land in my cupped palms, greedily gobbling crimson cranberries, a butterfly garden bathed in moonlight, the intoxicating, overwhelming perfume of  night- blooming jasmine, being cradled, feeling safe, protected for the first time in more than a decade, by someone who was my home, although I had been displaced,  whose frame wasn’t four walls and a roof, rather a soul enveloping embrace. The fog has lifted, somewhat, but the pregnant, gray clouds overtly hint at imminent, cleansing precipitation. . .