A Flash of Memory

It’s raining.

Everyone crowds

beneath the awning;

a humid mass

bodies, cigarette smoke,

foggy breath.

You and I stand out

in the rain. Watching,

declining offers

to make room.

Sans umbrellas

Sans hats

They shake their heads at us.

“You’re weird”.

We shake our heads at them.

“You’re silly.”

It’s just rain.

I wonder if you like the rain,

or is it claustrophobia?

You eye the small gaps

between people

like each is a prison.

Bars made of proximity,

friendship,

instead of metal

and concrete.

I jump in a puddle,

laughing,

tilt my head back,

spread my arms wide.

Reminder, no prison.

Just clean, cool air,

and water from

the sky.

I remember the smell

of my wet wool sweater,

the feel of my wet glasses

sliding down my nose,

the rain halo

around your curly

blond hair,

as you join me in

puddle splashing.

Making of it

your own dance

and ritual.