Sophie

It’s raining again. Or still. Whichever. It’s impossible to tell here. The sun comes up, and the black turns to soft grey. The sun goes down, and the soft grey fades to dark grey, then the deepest of blacks. The clouds roll across the sky, vast herds of thunderheads, each one a cavalry charge of epic proportions. The rain falls, and the street clears of people. It’s a very profound thing to watch, actually. I can stare out of my upstairs window, sitting on the cushions I have piled on my old traveling trunk, and watch as the rain first begins to patter against my window, slowly increasing in volume. The exodus of passerby on the streets is proportional to the rain, and no matter how fast the hard rains come – which they do, they always do – there is never anyone on the street. One time it hailed, and the people cleared the street at the same rate. And once it stops, a sudden halting of downpour, the streets fill again, almost in the blink of an eye. Doors swing open, windows are unlatched, and the sound of conversation and shoes on the sidewalk, that wonderful slapping sound that is unlike any other, can all be heard, even from my perch on that old traveling trunk. One of these days I’ll dig out this trunk, put the cushions aside, and starting walking again, feeling the somehow liberating weight of that trunk and the slapping sound of shoes on pavement. One of these days, but not today – it’s still raining, and the streets are emptying. There – the rain is a thunder on my roof and my window, and now the streets are clear – wait. Who is that? That girl there, with the sundress of vibrant green, my god she seems like summer come a new, a season in human form. She’s dancing, cavorting in the rain, as if it doesn’t bother her – perhaps it doesn’t, at that. She seems not to be soaked, and the light is strange around her – there is no grey, no black. It’s bright, as if she travels in her own sunbeam, a ray of light so full of warmth that it hurts my eyes, and I can feel her heat from here! Oh, what must her name be, this glorious creature of summer incarnate? What must the name be of a girl who doesn’t feel, perhaps is not even touched by the hard rain. Oh, I must know her name, and it seems my feet are faster than my brain – I’m out the door, my feet slapping on that black tar, and it feels hot, as at the end of a long day baking in the sun. The girl has turned to look at me now, and she’s smiling, she’s smiling, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I open my mouth to plead her to tell me her name, and I realize I already know it, and she’s nodding now, knowing that I know her, and she’s smiling still, Sophie’s smiling still, as I heft my traveling trunk over my shoulder, feeling that liberating weight, the freedom contained in the sound of my shoes slapping on the sidewalk as we walk down the road, and I don’t even realize it when the hard rains stop.