At last, at last, the rain. It announces itself in a great darkness that spreads quickly in from the west, lingers under deep roars of thunder, cuts the heat like the silencing of a stern mother in church. He writes from the desert to say his father is home, to say his goodbyes. I told him the things I needed to say. She writes from the same desert to say This just comes at such a bad time for me. As though death ought to schedule its appearances more conveniently. The rain passes.
It's too hard, sometimes, understanding the entirety of our finite little lives, our specks of dust in the great eons of the Universe. But would you rather trudge through the decades without giving it any thought, without dreaming what the point of it might be? No, surely, it must be better to feel too much than not at all.
Must be better to wonder, feel wonder, feel wondrous,
and maybe even that is the answer for which
we search.
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