1. The rain was like a game of red light, green light. Stop and go. And we laughed at the abruptness of it. And then the clouds performed a magic trick and dissipated, ceased to exist. And out came the stars. We stood side by side under the eaves as fat droplets collected above us and accepted Newton’s Law of Universal Gravitation, made love to Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity, and fell upon us– two souls drawn to the night sky. You told me why stars twinkle– a bending of light– turbulence in the atmosphere– light retracting in different directions. My heart, open like a child’s, looked up at those blinking pinholes, and wondered why no one had ever told me that before. Hollow echoes of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” dissipated in my head as you pulled me closer.
2. You wrote, “The moon looked to me like a turgid peach.” Looking at the fullness of it, the gentle hue, I couldn’t help but feel it mimicked me. It looked sated and content, blushing to be looked upon with such intent.
3. Every time it rains heavily I ask if it reminds you of Guyana. The first time we experienced a heavy rain together we sat beneath the corrugated metal of your porch. Morning. First cups of coffee. Sunlight illuminating otherwise hidden mist as raindrops pelleted in slanted synchronization. Guyana just volunteered itself, rolled off your tongue, pooled at my feet like an offering. Hearing about a time before we met gave me a strange pleasure– a seed, watered before it blooms.
Paintings by Kiyoshi Saito
1. Aizu Yanaizu Finishing
2. Snow and Sunset