They Say...

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die.

Rain.

Cold rain, which drives through the starlight and spirals downwards on the wind.

Rain which shimmers through the darkness.

Rain which falls around me, over me and onto me.

It penetrates my now useless, stained nightdress, down to my skin and further, into my veins, my blood, my bones, my brain, my heart.

Through it, I dance - my actions uncontrolled and free, wild, crazed, releasing everything inside me.

My body twists and turns, rotating, free-wheeling, gliding, floating through uncharacteristically graceful pirouettes, jumping, spinning, leaping; all a ritual of improvised expression.

This rain cleanses me. It frees me of everything. Everything from the past weeks, months, years is now insignificant in this night. All that exists is this rain. Nothing else.

Not him leaving, not the doubts, not the forced happiness, not the never-ending danger, not his constant absence that leaves me worried and scared and helpless.

Nothing.

But there is something. Something more, something worth fighting for. Something other than this rain, this night, this solidarity.

And as if I need reminding, I stop to catch my breath and my hands convulsively move downwards, and they rest on top of the one thing left, where my nightdress clings and creases to my swollen skin.

I look up to the sky, letting the rain form it’s paths along and down the contours my face. The cloud shifts aside and shows the moon.

It’s full.