The Rain Knows My Name

The Rain Knows My Name

The rain never forgets me.
It waits—
in the corners
of my quiet house—
for that first taste
of morning coffee to come—
and for me
to look up
and notice
the darkening sky.

It crawled and fell the same way
on her last day of hospice.

She watched the ceiling tiles
form clouds—
listened to
the rain tap the window.

I held her hand.
The rain held mine.

Until
the last thing—
she left me—
her smile.

They tell me grief is dry,
a desert of absence.
But mine is soaked—
in the tears
of her leaving
too soon,
of her
loving me
generously.

The rain forgives.
It returns—
finds the crack
in the soft spot
of my heart—
floods in
the moment
I think
I’ve healed.

It falls
whenever
I pass the church,
where we married,
to the graveyard
where she
is buried.

I carry an umbrella
just in case
the rain wants
to say
a heavy hello—
but today,
I don’t
have to
open it.

But that’s
the lie
I tell myself.

It’s there,
because
I need
something
to hold
that won’t—
let go.