it rains

A small girl with twisted brown hair and a face as clean and smooth as a fresh sprouted leaf sits kicking her feet against the plastic of the subway seat. Her limbs are brown and delicate, tiny hands fiddling with the ends of her pink shirt, her eyes turned upwards, pleading. “Mama I want my grapes” she says, tapping the bag that her mother holds. “Wait till you wash your hands,” her Mama says. “But Mama I want my grapes,” the girl repeats, a thin line forming in the crease of her brow. Tears well up in the corners of her eyes. One single drop falls.

Thunder clouds roll and writhe in the sky above the city. Everyone quickens their pace and pulls at their clothing in futile efforts to keep the outside out. A short man with a collared shirt stops abruptly as a taxi darts in front of him, and he turns to look at the heavens. The tops of buildings are tinged with a funny yellow grey and a look of fear seeps from his eyes into his face. The woman behind him sees this look, and turns herself. For forty-two blocks this domino chain of upward glances rolls, halting only when a dog is the next to receive the signal. He doesn’t need to look, he already knows.

Droplets begin to fall, slowly at first. A tired man who waits beneath the umbrella of his pretzel stand tries to count them at first. Soon, their speed increases – they begin to fall manically, frantically, desperately, in one massive race to reach the earth. Everyone runs for cover, except one man, who stands perfectly still in the assault from above, and waits. Each drop is like a revelation, each splash of water a perfect new idea, a brilliant song, a small poem. He feels history descending on his head, and as water dribbles off his nose he tries to catch the symphony that it encapsulates. His ribs heave against the heavy wet fabric of his shirt, and the die of his dark blue tie begins to run with the rain. His eyes are turned upward.