After the Rain

She is sitting in the window seat, staring at the glass. Or maybe she's staring through the glass, into the rain drumming against it. It's hard to tell with her, these days. Ever since it happened she's been... disconnected. And I don't know how to bring her back. Part of me wants to ask what she's looking at, but the thing is I know she probably doesn't even see whatever it is. It doesn't matter where her eyes are resting, anymore, because her vision is always turned inward.

But then she surprises me.

"It's so gray," she sighs. I try not to let my startlement show; this is the first time in months she has spoken without prompting. Instead I walk over to her, quiet and careful as though approaching a wild creature. I am always as gentle as I can be with her, now. I don't want to upset her.

"What's so gray, sweetie?"

"Everything. It's so colorless... like the rain washed all the world away and left cold gray mist in its place." She touches her fingers to the glass and I watch the skin press white against the transparent plane. I think to myself that she is the one who has lost all color, all vibrancy. She is the one who is washing away. I only wish I knew how to make it stop.

"That's not true," I say. "There's still plenty of color in the world. You just can't see it because..." I hesitate, but I don't know what else to say, "...because you're not in it. You're staring at it from the outside."

She doesn't bother to look at me, and it's not puzzlement so much as a sort of vague resignation in her voice as she responds, "What are you talking about? I'm staring it at it from inside. With you."

I take her hand away from the window and hold it in mine. It's cold. She keeps staring out the window, so I touch my other hand to her cheek and bring her eyes around to meet my own. They look so empty: washed away by too many tears.

"You're not with me," I whisper, "But you should be." I hope for a flicker of recognition, but there is none. She starts to turn her face away again, but I won't let her. "Come with me, Alaine. Come with me and I'll show you that the rain didn't take away all the color."

She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't resist when I pull her to her feet, either. I don't bother with jackets, or even boots- it's not raining that hard anymore, and anyway I like the feeling of mud between my toes. She used to, too. Before...

We step out into the garden, and I guide her along the little pathways she used to love so much, running between the flowers and trees she's nutured. I have tried to keep them in order while she mourns, but I can tell it's not the same- the colors don't seem as vivid as they were under her care. But at least the spring rain is warm and gentle on our skin, more like a caress than a slap. I think it feels good, but she doesn't seem to notice it one way or the other. We come across the bare branches of a bush that never woke from its winter slumber, and my heart sinks. I know this bush- it was her favorite. She planted it the day we moved into this house.

"It's so gray," she repeats helplessly, and the despair in her voice makes me want to scream. What happened to the woman who could sing plants from their hiding seeds? What happened to her passion, to her fire? And what happened to the man who should have been able to protect her from this, who should even now be able to bring her back? I have failed her. I fail, and I fail, and I fail. I failed to save her garden, I failed to save our child. I'm failing at saving her!

I break down, and I am crying under the sharp, gnarled corpse of my failure, my fingers clawing at the cold dark earth, trying to rip it out by the roots.

But suddenly her hands are on my shoulders, her too-thin chest is pressing urgently against my back.

"No, don't! Please don't, Roland! Look, you were right- it's not all gray. Look!" she is pointing to something through the brambles, and I follow the trembling line of her finger.

There it is, shimmering red and gold and green amidst the twisted gray- a tiny sprout. A new plant, coming up from the remains of the old. It is covered in rain drops clear as glass, and in one of them I see her reflection staring back at me, eyes huge and frightened.

I turn to face her.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry I let it die..."

"It wasn't your fault," she says, pressing her fingers over my lips. They are slick with rain and don't feel so cold, now. "It wasn't anyone's fault. Sometimes... things die." She reaches out a hand to brush lightly at the tiny plant. The droplets scatter, and I watch them catch the light on their way to earth.

"And sometimes they live,"


(After the Rain)