Deluge

 My bag is heavy; I'm literally carrying around rocks.

Cheap jewelry I bought in the south, painted gold and plastic pearls, with the clasps soldered shut. Still, it's pretty.

I'm carrying memories of streets in the city I love, chandelier stores, every person behind each door holding their own memories of a different world. My sadness did not feel at all out of place there. Dark branches of the trees. 

/

I walk on the side of the mountain at night, watching the sky shine white with lightning. "I will walk, I won't try to get a cab."

Then hailstones start to pelt my head. I run into a fluorescent-lit discount store. "Older sister," a young man yells, "we are closed!" He says this in another language, but it's clear; with his arms, he forms an X. I huddle in the doorway outside for a moment, but it's futile; in a second, I'm soaked with flying slush. I find an open door to the empty hall of an apartment, and try not to trip the automatic light as I stand and watch the electricity and rain. 

It pours on, and a light turns on in one of the rooms. I decide to join the deluge. My shoes fill with cold water; no trying to keep them dry. Brown pools ripple over the sidewalk, rush into the streets. I trail spots of gravel, and leap. 

Inside, I see a print left by rain on my shirt, the shape of a protective hand. 

/

You carry a light that you cannot imagine.