after the rain

the rain at 2:17 lights up the sky a bit. you love it when it darkens over like that, the house becomes silent and dark, the narrow window sills calm, the wooden doors closed and still. the rain falls evenly, with a constant but faint patter, until it's everywhere: tiny pin points, large grey blotches on the pavement first, then sweeping by on the horizon, through the tree tops, shifting angles, falling, it seems, in the best way possible. the ageless approach of the third thing, that makes it what it is, and no-one knows what it is.

outside, some of the cautious drivers switch on their lights; inside the lamps are lit, jumpers unfolded, mirrors become the colour of sky, like a dream that drains pinks into grey, or time reversed. inside, yes, there it was.

three black notebooks scattered on the floor. the work of little r, disruptive, darling little r. your notes on fairness kept in a plastic bag, irrelevant. you come to the close of the amber book and have to slow it down, lest something escapes you. the end often reveals something, like a gentle sadness. not some mystical utterance but probably something utterly ordinary, like a list of my favorite things. the small black buddha on the carved wooden stand. serene buddha, his thoughts never leaving the circle of his mind. behind him, a small medieval painting, woodcutters or village idiots. the kashmiri-rug, the warmth of the house, your old clothes that finally fit, this small world that will soon be empty, once the window panes start to shine with clarity. and then, after the rain, the catholicity will return to the orthodox way of things, and the mirrors will fail to show our true faces to one another again.