The Weight of Being

When the rain finally fell, she arrived much like a Diva strolling down a red carpet. Welcome by all but ignoring most and moving on. Large, quarter-sized drops landed randomly on and about them, too sporadic and distant to truly wet anything. Just enough to give their hope one more drink. What a horrible thing hope is, forever tempting that which we desire most.

Everyone waited so long for this reprieve. Relief from their droning, smoldering, desiccated existence in this renovated desert. Their eyes followed the clouds, watching them desolately waltz away. Like their lives, already spent.

They sat on the grass in the front yard of their home. A by the book, Wright inspired single-level structure just like all the others in their neighborhood. Older than either of them, but not by much. Their proximity enough to avoid questions from their children, friends or nosy neighbors. Always staying far enough to avoid each other. Out of reach, the way she wanted things. The children, a boy and a girl, played in the rear of the house. They could hear the pair chasing, laughing, fighting then laughing again. Why does the ability to retain and expand anger and hate increase with each dying second of childhood?

For sixteen days they idly watched as their eleven years together evaporated and drifted into that black hole of dead, yet unfinished love. Jacob sat with his knees pulled to his chest, arms resting on them, chin on his forearms. His dark brown skin shone with a warm sheet of sweat. Much like a drowning man, Jacob swallowed his fair share of hope that he could find a path towards redemption and reconciliation and most of all, forgiveness.