Raindrops
I’ve enjoyed writing for many years. I'm dedicating more time to the craft in my retirement days.
Raindrops
When I hear the word raindrops
My other line of thinking—whatever else I’m thinking—stops
And I think of showers on my head
A guy with huge tootsies fretting
In bed
Realizing the sleeping arrangement
Is inadequate
For dogs so large
Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head
I clearly see Mom who,
Though now long gone,
Nevertheless
Dances in the living room
To the
Burt Bacharach tune
And sings all the words
In a voice
I wish I could still hear
I can still hear
Not in my ear
But in my head
Instead
Her lovely voice
Melodic, symphonic, just beautiful to me
As was she
When she was young and vibrant
But then I thought she was old
Never knew better
Until she was gone
And I felt aged myself
But still too young
To be an orphan
She loved CCR, too
Sang about Lodi
Getting stranded there
Running out of time and money
Lodi
And Kenny Rogers
With his wheelchair-bound, heartfelt plea
To Ruby with her painted lips
And her rolled, curled and tinted hair
Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town
Or The Band
Pulling into Nazareth
With no room at the inn
The grin and the handshake
And…and…and…
The Weight
The load
That remembering puts on me
A heavy memory
A weight
That is heaviest when it rains
And the drops fall on my head
Where inside
With closed eyes
I can see a red bouffant
Above a lightly freckled face
On a young fair-skinned woman
Dancing
All over the place
Without a single trace
Of care
In her world
Singing along
Every word in the song
And then slow pirouette
In front of a green couch
Near a black and white TV
With rabbit ears extended
And she is so happy
I reach up
To wipe the raindrops
From the window
And it is dry
Afterword
Friend and fellow writer Brenda Arledge has continued week after week to put out in the ether a challenge to other members of the HP community in the form of a one-word prompt. "Raindrops" was, of course, the prompt from Brenda that pushed me to write this piece.
It is mostly about my mother as a young woman, who I thought was an old woman when I was a young boy. As a now-very-aged man, I look back on those days when I thought she was "old" and realize she was very young indeed. And she had eclectic tastes in music that passed directly from her bloodstream into my own.
I have said it many times before, but only because it's true: I miss her every day and often wish I'd had more time when she was alive to pay tribute to her and the memories she gave me.
© 2021 greg cain