Wet Stones by Anousha

WET STONES

by anousha sannat

It rained.

It rained again last night.

It’s the same every time, and nothing changes. Especially not the rain.

As I step over wet stones, I watch the neighborhood wake up. It’s more of a slow stretch now, dragging between getting up and being productive or just staying in bed.

People act surprised when water drips down their open car trunks. I mean, really? What else would happen?

The wet stones are an imbalance, sitting soggy on their designated space like cereal left out.

I look up at the sky. It’s cloudy. How is it still cloudy?! I want it to storm already. I get into my car and wipe the tears away from last night. A few drops fall from the roof of the car.

Put the car in drive.

It’s cloudy as I drive on. The streets have those same wet stains on them. The trees glitter softly with a light wind.

I want the storm to come already and rid us of all this rain.

But it won’t.

It’s not strong enough, not yet.

It will rain again tomorrow, and the night after.

Tears will still fall, people will still just grudge out of bed, droplets will slip down cars, streets stay wet, and the rain will fall down.