I am looking out of the window, the leaves of a tree right in front of me are trembling from the heavy raindrops falling onto them, little drums of nature: puck, puck-puck, puck.
The soil is turning dark brown, soaking up the heaven’s sweat and tears like cocoa powder soaks up heavenly cold milk.
Then a sudden wave of melancholy washes over me, my own mortality trickling into my chest like wet dust. I try and breath in. It still works.
A wind of fear brushes by my forehead, turning it ever so slightly moist. Numbness hits my hands, my feet, my legs. I breath in through an invisible straw. My heart hurts. It’s here. Panic. Attack. Now.
Two days. Two days before my father’s death and his birthday cross paths again, and it is like he is more dead than on all the other days. This is his fourth birthday without him. He would turn 58 if he were alive. Ghosts of fear and sadness come more frequently before these days. I know. My heart still hurts. The sweat. The breathing through the straw.
Then a thought knocks on the doors of my weary consciousness asking to be let in. The thought whispers, gently: if death were here, I would welcome it, peacefully and happily. For I have been gifted with knowing how it feels to be loved. And I have been gifted with knowing how it feels to love. Wholly, madly, tenderly, sweetly.
Come, death. If need be, sit with me. I’m not afraid. For I have love and love has me.
Ten minutes pass or an hour. It travels through me like a clear, sweet brook, slowly lifting the heavy weight from my chest, cleaning my dusted veins, and washing my forehead dry.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The leaves are dancing in the wind, shedding themselves dry. The soil is starting to warm up again, to breath. The storm is over.