by Jenn Mara
She closed her eyes feeling the vibrations inside her soul.
Counting as her grandmother had always instructed. One, two,
three, four before the blinding flash cutting through the night
Her pulse quickened as the next crash of thunder boomed in her
ears. She really should go inside now but it had been so long
since a good rain. The type that erased all the woes of the day
shedding them like a second skin sloughing.
She rose from the stoop moving on tiptoed feet scraped from
the lack of proper shoes in the wild brush taking over the front
yard when it was too warm to mow.
Plink, plink, the first drops falling from the greyed twilight
saturating her clothing as she spun. A giggle she hadn’t realized
she had been hiding escaping between the crashing of thunder
all around her.
The flash of light brilliant and for just a moment the landscape
reappeared before her. The neighborhood quiet as others
sheltered in place, far away and dreaming in their beds. To her a
symphony in her head as she swayed between the rain drops.
She counted again the storm moving closer. One second now.
The binding of her wet clothing tight to her legs as she tried to
effortlessly twirl again as another laugh escaped her parted lips.
She was sure her grandmother was celebrating with from
beyond with the same ceremonial dance.
About the Author
Jenn Mara, 43, of Pearl River writes prose about dancing in the rain while remembering her grandmother. Her favorite library branch is the Slidell Branch on Robert Boulevard.