When it Falls and We See, Then it Pours and We Are
When the radio was a rope and someday was a lifeline to a place that wasn’t a place, but could’ve been, we were good.
Yes, we were good, we’d say.
Rope-less, lifeline-less and could-less, we get it. We see.
We see we aren’t so good.
Not anymore.
Not in this rain.
We have rainwater in our shoes rainwater in our blues rainwater in our hearts rainwater in our souls rainwater in our Riboflavin, I tell our alchemy life coach.
You are a tuning fork and the rainwater is a vibe, our coach tells us. You have a choice. Like the song says, whether it rains or shines, it’s a state of mind.
It’s a mind thing, all right, you say: Like that G. Gordon What’s-His-Asshat used to say, “the trick is not minding.”
For a while, we were good at not minding, we tell the coach.
We didn’t mind having hands that went from held to unheld. Shoulders that went from touched to untouched. Lives that went from lived to unlived.
But when our hearts went from loved to unloved, we weren’t so good, we say.
It’s not a minding thing, all this rain, I say.
Coach asks us to take two deep breaths, relax and listen.
You have a radio? I ask.
Nope — Spotify, he says.
We hear “I Wish it Would Rain” by the Temptations, “I’m Only Happy When it Rains” by Garbage, “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” by Bob Dylan.
Cute playlist, you say.
It is, coach says.
Is it? I say, removing my right Frye boot to shake out the water. What about this vibe thing? What about the lack of lifelines? What about the lack of love? What about all this rain?
While I’m asking these things, rainwater bursts through coach’s ceiling, revealing a cracked-open sky, a disapproving sun, and more and more water.
I see coach, slightly tilting his head and rap-rap-rapping it to knock moisture out of his ear. Yes, how about all this rain? he says. It’s something, isn’t it?
I see you, softly crying, swaying and singing along with the deluge of Dylan’s.
I see myself, barely breathing, in your eyes. Myself as Warren G. Harding.
Held under court-ordered seal for years, the 29th U.S. president’s letters to a lover who was not his wife were made public in 2014.
In your eyes, I see you, reading letters.
I see me, angry that you’re reading.
I see you, turning off the radio.
I see me, throwing a rope.
I see Harding’s lover, holding a lifeline.
I see Warren G., holding back.
I see the rain.
I see it pour.
I see you.
I see the sway.
I see me.
I see the surge.
I see you.
I see you.
I don’t see me.
I see the rain.
I see it pour.
On a rainy night in Rainbowville, Pat Foran put a downpayment on a full-of-holes houseboat. His work has appeared in various journals, including Fractured Lit, HOOT Review and Pithead Chapel. Find him at neutralspaces.co/patforan/ and on Twitter at @pdforan.
