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35
MAMA WAS LIKE RAIN
<p>Leaves trembled under the rain, but not as heavily as she did. The sky wept in silence, raindrops sinking into the soil like the knife that had pierced Mama’s heart. She watched the dark clouds bleed through the cracked window of her papa’s tortoise, his old Volkswagen Beetle.</p><p><br/></p><p>"At least the rain will bring life to the flowers on Mama’s grave," she thought.</p><p><br/></p><p>Papa drove through the muddy streets in silence, the storm outside mirroring the chaos in his mind. Although Mama loved the rain, Papa did not. And she did not either.</p><p><br/></p><p>The sudden downpour reminded her of Mama: loud, angry, yet never without beauty.</p><p><br/></p><p>Mama was like rain. Dangerous. Frightening. Able to make her weep like a zinc rooftop under a storm.</p><p><br/></p><p>Yet Mama seeped into people too, as rain percolates sandy soil. She gained their trust with a calm exterior, while wild thunder brewed beneath. Her pale, stained skin held the acid she carried in her fury, the same acid that had corroded their family long before it touched her flesh.</p><p><br/></p><p>Papa’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. She could not help but wonder if this was the same storm that hit Mama the night she fell. A storm he carried quietly, contained but never gone. A storm that lingered, heavy and destructive, unlike fleeting rain, rising high in the sky before tumbling down.</p><p><br/></p><p>And like rain, Mama left marks no storm could erase.</p>
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