I noticed that rain hits the concrete in my neighborhood
a bit differently; it has a tendency of washing away the blood
spilled on the floors. I am relieved when the rain comes drizzling
in, and my sister doesn’t have to step over dried, mahogany color
stains on her way to school, and I don’t have to lie to her each
time she asks why there are so many stains on the floor. I know
eventually, she’ll catch on that children can’t possibly always spill
their cherry-flavored Marino’s Italian Ices on the floor from
happiness each time their wishes are made, and that Grandma Betty
ain’t weeping because she noticed a sign from God on the floor,
but pieces of her grandchild’s flesh and coal-black hair entangled
in the raw, ruggedness of dried cement. Though, one thing about
the rain is that it puts out the candles burning on Richard’s
altar; how will he ever find his way home in the dark
when there’s no nightlight illuminating the picture of him smiling
in his high school graduation? The darkness—the eeriness of the
words Rest in Peace exuding red ink over his smiling portrait,
covering his proudful, gleaming eyes, and only leaving just the
peeping of his black pupils—the sight of it keeps me up at night;
and although the rain does wash away the blood, so that it can travel
miles beyond the imagination of whoever it spilled from –
I am killed every time. When my shirt gets soaked by rain,
I can’t help but feel blood seeping from my body and for that
I truly hate when it rains on my block.
