When I walk into the room, she is still writing. Sheets of paper lie forsaken all around her chair. The waste basket is brimming with even more scrunched up balls of paper. I wonder about the trees they came from. If there ever was a house deserving to be haunted by the ghosts of trees, it is this one.
My wife is a writer.
She prefers to be a writer the old fashioned way.
This translates into weekend shopping lists with requests for pens, pencils and of course, more dead trees.
I can tell things are going better than before. The unruly curls that had previously formed a halo around her head are now tucked behind her ears. She isn’t nibbling on pencils and pens like she was when I checked in a couple of hours ago. Her head is cocked to one side and her lips are moving silently. She does that sometimes; reading aloud to herself to see if the words fit. Behind her, the sun is out and the rain clouds have moved house to some other part of the world. I can hear the sounds of children coming out of houses that can no longer contain their excitement. It is the first rain of the year. There will be little ponds on the road to explore and splash in.
She taught me to dance in the rain, to move in sync with the rhythm of the earth, to open my mouth and drink from heaven, to break the rules, to be more than the world expects of me.
It will break her heart to know it rained while she stayed in this room and put more trees to death.
“Has it stopped raining?” She says to me. There is a half smile on her face. She has caught me longing for another dance.
“You knew it was raining?” I ask her in return.
“I always know when it is raining.”
She sighs and stands to stretch her tired body.
“Come, come, let’s dance.” She beckons to me with hands stained with blue ink.
“It isn’t raining.” I say matter of factly.
“Do you dance when it rains or does it rain when you dance?” She asks winking at me.
I glance outside the window and it is darker than it was a little while ago. I hear the screams of the children as they seek shelter inside the houses they had been set free from only a few minutes back. I walk to my wife and hold her in my arms and we dance to the rhythm of the rain.
“Is it a good story?” I whisper.
“Who knows?” She answers.
I breathe in deeply and am overwhelmed by the scent of all that is right with the world- of trees, of paper, of ink, of rain, of someone who is as in love with me as I am with her…
We dance and it rains.
Song of the Day: Elton John – Can You Feel the Love tonight