Rain
The sun was not yet up. The street was empty. No roaring automobiles, no cursing
mothers pulling kids around, no noise of blacksmith’s saw. Not even the
neighborhood beggar. No sign of life yet.
The mystical music composed by raindrops striking tin gutters and windowpanes
were all. Rain masterfully played any tune ears yearned to hear.
On either side of the narrow street, little circles could be seen, like city stamps on
every cross section. The aroma of the lamb restaurant filled the air. Tongue-less
lamb heads were arranged elegantly in a serving dish on the counter, inviting
hungry passersby.
Down the street was a bakery. The red glow of the oven’s fire welcomed the end of
a cold night. Two bakers worked in concert, one sliding the raw dough into the
oven, the other pulling out the browned flat bread. Their body motions were
perfectly in tune with the rhythmic melody of the rain.
Four factory workers appeared, buried deep in their overcoats, waiting for the
company bus. They stood motionless against the wall as if waiting for a firing
squad. As the bus approached, they stretched their necks like waking turtles.
Every day at this hour, the long-handle broom of the street cleaner could be
heard. When he approached, a cloud of dust surrounded him like the saints. But
today there was no sign of him. The job of sweeping the streets was given to the
rain.
A young man walked toward the intersection, his hands hidden in his pockets. His
splashing steps interrupted the cadence of rain. His toes froze as the icy water
flooded his worn out shoes. He dug his head into the collar of his coat and
breathed inside to save his body heat.
As a child he wove rugs in his village, then he herded sheep and a few years later
he came to the city to work as a day laborer. And now he was sitting on the
banisters waiting for the employers. Whenever a truck stopped, workers anxiously
swarmed to it and climbed in the bed. The boss got out and the hiring process
started. He meticulously examined the workers and picked seven or eight for the
day’s work. The rest had to wait for the next truck. The older, slender, and pale
ones got off first. But, the young man wasn’t worried about not getting picked.
The rain was coming down harder. He slumped in the back of the truck
remembering where he worked the last two weeks; where he left his soul and his
heart. In a house surrounded by towering walls with ceilings decorated with more
mirrors than shrines and windows large enough to swallow all the sunlight.
He stood outside one of those massive windows in a pausing moment from work in
the yard when he first saw her inside. She was peering out, above him and into the
sun as if looking at herself in a mirror carelessly toying with sunbeams with a wisp
of her hair, mocking the sun with her beauty.
The young woman was unaware of his gaze, as if he was not even there, standing
just steps from her. She stood on an ornate rug in a white dress, a tantalizing
contrast to the dark flowers underneath her feet. The same type of rug he’d
worked on as a child, the same intricate weaving that had cost him most of his
eyesight.
As she pranced across the meadow of the rug, for a moment he thought she was
looking at him. The young man found his soul in her casual glimpse and lost it
again forever.
It was now pouring. The frozen needles were striking his face. When the truck
jolted, the young man in trance under the lashing rain was thinking of light, crystal,
and mirror.
The sun was not yet up. The street was empty. No roaring automobiles, no cursing
mothers pulling kids around, no noise of blacksmith’s saw. Not even the
neighborhood beggar. No sign of life yet.
The mystical music composed by raindrops striking tin gutters and windowpanes
were all. Rain masterfully played any tune ears yearned to hear.
On either side of the narrow street, little circles could be seen, like city stamps on
every cross section. The aroma of the lamb restaurant filled the air. Tongue-less
lamb heads were arranged elegantly in a serving dish on the counter, inviting
hungry passersby.
Down the street was a bakery. The red glow of the oven’s fire welcomed the end of
a cold night. Two bakers worked in concert, one sliding the raw dough into the
oven, the other pulling out the browned flat bread. Their body motions were
perfectly in tune with the rhythmic melody of the rain.
Four factory workers appeared, buried deep in their overcoats, waiting for the
company bus. They stood motionless against the wall as if waiting for a firing
squad. As the bus approached, they stretched their necks like waking turtles.
Every day at this hour, the long-handle broom of the street cleaner could be
heard. When he approached, a cloud of dust surrounded him like the saints. But
today there was no sign of him. The job of sweeping the streets was given to the
rain.
A young man walked toward the intersection, his hands hidden in his pockets. His
splashing steps interrupted the cadence of rain. His toes froze as the icy water
flooded his worn out shoes. He dug his head into the collar of his coat and
breathed inside to save his body heat.
As a child he wove rugs in his village, then he herded sheep and a few years later
he came to the city to work as a day laborer. And now he was sitting on the
banisters waiting for the employers. Whenever a truck stopped, workers anxiously
swarmed to it and climbed in the bed. The boss got out and the hiring process
started. He meticulously examined the workers and picked seven or eight for the
day’s work. The rest had to wait for the next truck. The older, slender, and pale
ones got off first. But, the young man wasn’t worried about not getting picked.
The rain was coming down harder. He slumped in the back of the truck
remembering where he worked the last two weeks; where he left his soul and his
heart. In a house surrounded by towering walls with ceilings decorated with more
mirrors than shrines and windows large enough to swallow all the sunlight.
He stood outside one of those massive windows in a pausing moment from work in
the yard when he first saw her inside. She was peering out, above him and into the
sun as if looking at herself in a mirror carelessly toying with sunbeams with a wisp
of her hair, mocking the sun with her beauty.
The young woman was unaware of his gaze, as if he was not even there, standing
just steps from her. She stood on an ornate rug in a white dress, a tantalizing
contrast to the dark flowers underneath her feet. The same type of rug he’d
worked on as a child, the same intricate weaving that had cost him most of his
eyesight.
As she pranced across the meadow of the rug, for a moment he thought she was
looking at him. The young man found his soul in her casual glimpse and lost it
again forever.
It was now pouring. The frozen needles were striking his face. When the truck
jolted, the young man in trance under the lashing rain was thinking of light, crystal,
and mirror.
