rain boats

Today I think
of green,
rain-drenched fields,
flowing into
deep-blue horizons.
viewed from
sleepy dark compartments
of early morning trains
the neck anxious,
preening,
moist eyes,
wind in the hair.

the familiar showers
that drip all day
from tiled roofs
wet feet
on cracked floors.
and there is this place
where two rows
of tiled roofs meet
where the water
not just drips
but flows and flows
in one steady stream
long after the rains have stopped.

it is here
that the children
tear pages from
the past year's
notebooks
and set
their paper boats
on sail
attempting
to venture out
along with their boats,
stepping on
slippery snakes
that creep in,
as the silver-haired glance
of their grandmother
drifts.

today,
as the rain falls,
the grandmother's photo
sits atop the rusty,
faded blue fridge.
the little boy
whose paper boats
were the rain
and ran wild and wild
around the old house,
climbed walls and trees,
is many miles away
stumps remain
of the trees
he loved
to climb
and the house silent,
so silent,
it is the silence
that gathers dust
on furniture,
the book shelves
the memories.

and somewhere,
along the rain-years
rivalry
grew into love,
enmity into
a certain endless fondness,
jealousy into
pride,
admiration, love.

the rain falls and falls,
not growing old
over the years,
the memories.
but has it grown
quieter,
sadder, and lonely,
how will i know?
for the rain
will never
be the same again
without
the paper boats
set to sail
by the little boy
i have grown
to love so much.

(my kid brother turned 21 today, and i am still trying to come to grips with the fact that there is no turning back of the clock now. somewhere, i miss that lovely, naughty boy i grew up with, whom i hate-love-tolerated then. but today i also know, we'll never really be old enough to always grow up with each other)