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