Rain

Let Me Tell You A Love Story

True love is caring for another as much as I do, knowing full well she doesn’t care at all about me. Love is exhausting myself in preservation efforts to get nothing in return. And true love is not holding that against her.

I’ve been low. Incurably low. Dangerously low.

Two days ago, I walked out into the suffocating July heat and spat to the clear sky, “It’s never going to rain.”

The next day with no prediction, the Tulsa sky delivered an absolute downpour that would have had potential to flood, had it lasted. Other plans kept me indoors, separating me from my love by a large pane of glass.

I spent today’s first 16 hours in my apartment. After a morning of self-care and productive motivation, I filled a watering can to tend to the needs of my plant family. I cared for my indoor companions, then stepped outside to also hydrate my outside friends.

As I dampened the soil, the gray sky caught my eye.

“I won’t miss it today,” I vowed.

I ran inside and collected relaxation toolsーa couple of books, lined paper, pensーand returned to the patient outdoors just as it began sprinkling.

I made it to my complex’s private park to reflect on the beauty of it all. As my love grew, the rain poured down harder.

You see? She does notice. She does care.

This morning, I told the mirror, “If I died, the world would keep turning.” But the truth is, my death would shake the very foundation on which we stand. The skies would weep. The flowers would bow their heads in mourning. The winds would howl and scream.