I rung out the rag, a ripped bit of old t-shirt, over the table that used to be white. When Grandma asks you to do something for her, you do it.
You vacuum, weed, pick, eat, nap, watch T.V., play outside, wash dishes, keep quiet, or even let her give you pennies.
Yesterday I scrubbed an outside picnic table, because my Grandma asked me to.
The swirling water scattered particles of grime reminding me of the approaching clouds overhead. She said to clean the table before the storm hit.
I thought of another storm that had hit.
It hasn’t quite been a full month since Grandpa’s death.
Coming back to the house, seeing the cat in his old chair, glazed over my heart. Coats of sealer have kept lathering over days, weeks, and months.
Out of self-preservation, my body covers, covers, covers my weakest organ. Not out of callousness but like cooling heated glass, my fragile heart must be protected from exploding.
Despite countless efforts, every once in a while, unexpectedly – naturally – the casing rips open and my heart boils out lacking discretion.
Tears may well in my eyes at the mention of a “last breath” as I sit at a conference for young writers.
My answer of “I’m ok” may really be a plea for the question, “How are you actually?”
I may scribble poetic jots and tittles riddled with double meanings and tears.
In fact, when I sat down to write this post about “Cleansing Rain” I never expected to write all of this.
I was going to write about water.
I was going to compare the soppy bucket with a dirtied life needing dumped out and filled again.
I was going to describe how the rain pelted our windshield as we braved the drive to Wal*Mart.
This was supposed to be in the “Wonderology” category for wondering about water and finding beauty in everyday things.
Now I guess it turned into a pondering of another kind.
Rain cleanses more than scrubbed outdoor picnic tables; it peels away crusty polish on a heart.