on a rainy day, the memories are wet

in a room that smells of wet clothes, hung to dry on a yellow rope dotted with grime, and secured by clips, dead, if you have seen mothers who hold children who have gone to sleep forever, for the winds don't come in.... the windows are shut against the rain, rain that tickles down the wire mesh, a reminder, but there is none to answer the call.... the dampness spreads across the pale walls, and up from the ground, the curtains are wet too, the rusted old fan, turns and turns and turns, there is water falling, not lashing, not painful, only falling, a trickle of air.... secret letters of love, guilt, blotted by tears that roll down unwashed, unpowdered cheeks, salty letters in black ink that spreads on the paper, smeared now with secret guilt, hidden passions, honest scars which you can deny later when the wounds shall heal, the bandage shall go and leave no mark, but hidden too long and too quick, like doors shut on noise and light, maybe, only maybe and rarely, develop into pus, but for now it is wise to cover it up with a bandage..... like the lichen that grows beneath your clean white palm and the old wall now silent, so quiet, like the talkative grandmother who was dressed in white and wore those black rimmed glasses and there was an argument about which side to place her head that will not now be restless, will not argue, but the chin was up, and she was powdered again in cream sandalwood powder, the floor of the old house was wet that day and mother said it was from the nearby pond, that there was water beneath all this, so when she was buried, maybe she floated or swam away to some safe haven, she did not come back to tell her grandchild this last tale of adventure, i know the grandchild waited.... but weren't we talking about the lichen, that soft and green, its tender tentacles, a growth that spreads on memories that will soon be hidden, and under the softness you can still feel the hard red stone, firm still, but no outward traces.... like the reflections we left on our favourite waters, the stones we threw in must sure be there still, when now will we hold hands and go in looking for round white pebbles, boats made from grandfather's old newspapers and father's office documents, a wooden doll, a silver anklet, is it still there.... but our reflections are now different, or is it because the river has grown old....