She stared out the window, and through the fogginess was a light she blindly noticed. Mistaken for rain, she reached her hand out, only to find another's touch, and the fingers of those of whom she cherished gripping tightly onto her wrist.
Life is a splintered door that keeps pushing into our noses, but then there are those kind enough to wound their hand clutching the golden doorknob that keeps slipping, though through vigorous efforts would their oiled hands eventually tame the ferocity of the night slipping through the doorframe.
Sometimes life sits on top of her head like the devil on our shoulder telling us to leap from the cliff, but there's the hand I hope she knows would grasp hers in times of naught. Many hands, willing to catch or leap with her. She was the light others blindly noticed, the light nobody could mistake for rain.
At the end of the tunnel, she stood with arms open ready with the realization of withered waters that only disintegrate the fires burning our feet. She was worth every inch through the tunnel, the hopelessness that filled our hearts when we thought nothing would be at the end. But, in fact, at the end of the tunnel was a light brighter than the emergence of renewal. It was her.
Though the rain can be her only friend at times, beyond the showers are oceans made from her sorrows that sprout beautiful roses on the shores. Thorns pricking those who dare defy the willingness of her sands, the erosion of her anger.
In the end, she was what death yearned for, life itself.
