All day long, we sit on the crumbling wall of the cemetery. Our feet, clad in mud-crusted Mary Janes, dangle inches above the wild grass.
There is silence, a blanket of windless heat punctuated by the cawing of crows and the chattering of squirrels, until the first fat bullets of rain lodge themselves on our necks.
We shoulder the bags, put on our rain capes and begin the long walk back. We must have looked hunchbacked, the rain capes bulging over our oversized school bags. Once this would have been reason enough for ceaseless bouts of laughter, we may even have splashed about in the muddy puddles or tried to catch the raindrops on our tongue. Not today.
roar of rain . . .
knowing what she means
by 'he touches me'
Note: first published in Open: Journal of Art & Letters and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.