Rain

Pain strips you off your inhibitions like the rain washes you inside and out. And in as much the same way that rain leaves behind ripples on its outpoor, pain betrays your vulnerability and leaves you scars that even time can’t heal.

I hate the rain, always have. But it didn’t compare to my trudging down memory lane and having to tread on a thin sheath of hope.

“Beth, look! Little Rudy sure does look good sitting on me. Maybe you should start giving me my own grandchild soon.”

I remember how my father used to tease me about this. I also remember how I always used to reply, “Dad, come on. Stop it. I told you there’ll be a time for that.” And that said always with a snicker and my eyes rolled. Yes, I remember so well how it used to annoy me, but I can never recall ever feeling sorry for that as I am feeling right now.

“Beth,” my sister calls out. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry. I just remembered something.” We are on dad’s bedside in the hospital. Three years has clearly taken its toll on him.

“Beth, look, when will you give me my own grandchild?” my dad suddenly said.

Feeling tears in my eyes, I looked down at him, held his hand, and replied, “Dad, come on. Stop it. I told you there’ll be a time for that.”

But time was what we no longer had. It was running out…and almost gone. And finally crying, I said, “I’m sorry.”

The rain has never stopped falling since.