Rain In July

Minerva Thangjam *

( p r o l o g u e )

The summer sky was dulled by grey clouds whose only intent was to wash yesterday away.

I remember it vividly: the air that day, your narrowed eyes, my innocence, and what passed by that very day.

The smell of dirt, the fresh red locks, the buzzed head, wet white tees clung to human skin, and the absurdity of youth.

I don't quite remember if it was the rain or my hazy memory, but I felt my insides soaking in the sweet scent of what I thought I knew.

The umbrella that sheltered us was rapidly pitter-pattered by the cacophony of water droplets, which prompted our synced pulses to do the same.

I was a child again in that very moment, and right in front of me was a similar being who longed for the embrace of familiarity.

The flush of water near the sidewalk took the form of the blood gushing through my veins, asking for nothing but sight on my cheeks.

( e p i l o g u e )

There I was, alone, standing under that umbrella on that rainy day of that distant July, again.

Perhaps it's age or growth—this time there was no child, no being in front of me, just pieces of what a fragmented mind was capable of making.

There never was a being in front of me; there never was a summer sky. It was always grey—it has always been. There never was a July. It never existed.

The mechanics of the human body could have never comprehended what came with the loss of yesterday; it ended up creating a mirage of you today.

Whether it was that distant summer of July or the summer of today, the pain of losing you—the last summer I had with you—will always be coped with.

The moment the faint being was out of my vision, summer ceased to be anything. No summer existed in your absence; no summer shall ever exist without your presence.

And in this very rain in July, I shall wash away every nook of the being that causes my ragged breath. And in this very summer rain, I shall create another child who never has to mourn the passing of rain.