A phantom moisture on the air reminds me of a rain I stood in years ago, when woolen socks and a pretty smile could deliver me from any dark mood. I tilt my face up to the overcast and am haunted with memories from grey days gone by. My mother was buried on such an afternoon, the world in shades of dismal.
And since then I have walked over saturated grass and slick streets, the spectre that is storm inevitable chilling me to the bone. Many times have my sombre thoughts matched the clouds, fat with precipitation and lurking on the horizon. Soon the weight of water will overcome me, and I will be drowning in time mispent. I have read before that we are buried in rain and, as the first drops hit my face, I am inclined to agree.