Moments

Pearly Dewdrops Drop

Her hair had gotten longer. Longer and darker with our world slipping near the winter months. She was sat at her windowsill, her body arched forward, her chin resting on her arms as she gazed at her windowpane with a small sheet of paper in her hand. It's drizzling. She always loved the rain. Something about the way it made her feel. She used to tell me stories, stories of her father. When she was small and the thunder was booming, as lightening radiated in the night sky, she would sit here in her father's lap, and watch the storm until she fell asleep. She was a brave child, never afraid of the storm, and she loved her father. Every storm, every glimpse of a storm, she was sat at this windowsill, with her father. And then it became something more. It wasn't just a windowsill anymore, it was a place of comfort, tranquility. And anytime there was a storm inside her, here she sat, at this windowsill, waiting for it's magic to lead her toward the light at the end of the tunnel. After her first heartbreak, after receiving her rejection letter from her dream college, after being told that she could never have children, somehow, this spot made things a little better. It gave her a chance to think. Like in childhood, before we're corrupted by the truth of the world, when we're still honest, when we still believe in everything, she could sit here and let her woes whisk away. 

But today, we're here today. And I don't know what to say to her, as I stand leaning in the doorway, watching gentle tears stream down her face. She sits in her father's chair and cries, for everything she's lost, for everything she hasn't. She cries because she needs to, and that's okay. I ease toward her, so as not to disturb her. The weather, her clothes, this room, seem to adhere to her melancholy. She's wearing a black dress, black tights, a black sweater, curled up thinking. But, around her neck lies a beautiful string of pearls, a gift from her father the day she graduated. She would lose a part of herself if she ever lost those pearls. Similar to today, as the paper flutters toward the ground out of her hand, the first line reads:

"In Loving Memory of..."

The paper lands face down. Once I reach her, I gently place my hand on her shoulder. At first, she doesn't notice me, but then I kneel next to her. She slowly turns her head, looking toward me, she sniffles. I take her hands and press them to my lips, and somehow, tears that have been pent up spill out angrily and she cries harder and harder, as she throws her arms around me. I catch strongly and lift her up, wrapping my arms around her tightly. I turn and sweep her legs off of the ground, then sit in the chair, as she tightens her grip. And in that moment, as it starts to rain more heavily, I get a vivid image of a little girl with dark hair and missing teeth, laying in her father's lap, mesmerized by a storm, without a care in the world. And I understand. I understand what this means to her, and now it's something that she'll never get back. And my heart reaches out to her.

After time passes and thoughts have come and gone, I make a realization: her father isn't gone. Not completely at least. He'll always be here, looking after her, believing in her, reminding her of what's important, and sending everlasting soliloquies of love and happiness. And so will I.