like a tirade against me, it rains down. Onslaught after onslaught, the house shutters and the skies strobe with light. My dog noses onto my face as I gasp for breath between sobs curled next to the bathroom heater. It drowns out all feeling.
There are buds in those garden beds, how could You be so cruel! I prance out red streaks burning on my face and dash my slippers into puddles, heave tarps over what I can. The pellets are the size of corn chips, some grand as marbles. For the first time in as long as my memory holds I gorge the heaviness in my lungs out into the air like the weakest battle cry. Another pouring spells down, and the smallness of our lives is thrust on me.
He humbles in the wake of His mercy, in the down-tearing of all that is good. Far away through the telephone my man will have no more to do with my pain and suffering, nor will he subject himself to challenge of solution. We run in cycles, he says. He has decided this without mercy. I turn away. Face He who stands ahead, silent with no pity and no grace in His eye. Smaller again I shrink.
In this town I wonder who else is gnashing their teeth to the sky, crying out in anguish. With so little to lose and so little to suffer from, who else curls in the corner as a sullen wet dog? Who stares to the darkening treeline, branches carved out in a black clutter of lines, and opens themselves to the rage that too comes with His love?
On my walk just before the thunders bellowed, I saw clouds quickly descending the hillside. At the time it seemed beautiful, though I drove home quick.
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