The rain is falling; the woman’s body can sense moisture in the air. Once a child, the woman would think it odd when her grandmother would comment, I can feel the weather in my bones. Now she knows this is factual. Scientists state that creatures, including birds, can sense a storm, as it brews, before it strikes. True, the woman believes. Pay attention to the birds, Grace. Look to the skies.
The sky is grey, dove grey. Gossamer threads taut, white fibres stretched through the sky, much like a blanket, the shades subtly mingled and woven. A cozy blanket to comfort the earth.
The woman fans the paint chips, November Skies, catches her eye. When it comes to colour, Nature, the masterful painter, always gets it right. Look to the skies.
This is a red boot day, a functional rain boot day. The woman senses the boots whispering through the floors of the old house, Come, let’s play. Once there was a time when new rain boots made the woman smile, peering through the living room window, waiting for rain. Anticipating the child’s thrill, dipping a foot into water. The puddles to splash! Look to the skies.
The rain tumbles down. The woman wonders, Does the sky shed tears? Perhaps, the universe, heart-broken and melancholy, sobs, when a light goes out on the earth below. A sorrowful cleanse of sorts, a reminder of loss and despair. A reminder of another’s love, now washed away. Lost to memory, patiently waiting, for the right time for one to open the box. Open it. Let the sunlight’s brilliance remind us of all that is beautiful in life, remembering, the rain will pass. Look to the skies.