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 synchronicity, sliding the raw dough into the oven and 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.
Everyday 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 in his pockets. His splashing steps interrupted the
music of the 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, when he grew up he herded sheep. The last few years he came to
the city working as a day laborer. He came to this circle and sat 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.
Rain came down harder. He slumped in the back of the truck recalling 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. Pausing from his work in the yard, he saw her inside. She
was peering out, above him and into the sun as if looking at herself in a mirror. She toyed with sunbeams
with strands of her hair and mocked the sun itself with her beauty.
The young woman was unaware of his gaze, as if he was not even there, just steps from her. She stood
on an ornate rug in a white dress, a contrast to the dark weaving of the rug. The same type of rug he’d
worked on as a child. The intricate weaving had cost him most of his eyesight.
As she floated carelessly across the woven flowers in 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 pouring now. The rain stroke him like frozen needles.
The truck jolted, started moving, and the young man sat under the lashing wind thinking of light, crystal,
and mirror.