She loved the way the rain sounded
on the stucco roof, like memories
washing over naked skin
in the shower or thoughts
falling from emptying eyelids. This
rain was all the words she hadn’t
said before the plane took off into
the sky and exploded a tower into a
million pieces and smoke. This rain
was her father’s forgiveness and their
shared tears of healing. The sad,
melancholy song you can’t help but
to play on repeat, call it beautiful.
