It’s raining on the window of the car. Not pitter-patter soft or heavy sheets of water hard. There’s a parking lot outside, and I’m peering at it over my toes, propped up over the dash. It looks like God is running His hand over it as one might run their hand over a fresh painting, smudging it beyond repair. In my mind, I’m picturing the little girl that lives in our complex walking barefoot in her sister’s shadow, lips around the top of a cherry popsicle, sleek black pigtails swaying with her tottering gait, her mother standing with her hands on her slim hips across the way and shouting to them in Chinese. The worlds all smudge together. Here I am, writing this, and I’m not in the car at all; I’m in the house, and the sisters are running through puddles outside the living room window, squealing and throwing their arms about in the leftover drizzle.


About A B

"There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark, both running through me." -Over The Rhine
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