Rain
Suanne Fetherolf Outside, the rain wraps black branches like white wet gauze while I sit in a puddle of lamplight writing my father’s obituary. He lived long and easy , still dreaming of a ranch in the foothills horses for the grandchildren still dreaming long after the rugs had been removed so he wouldn’t break a hip. He smelled of Vitalis and Old Spice wore a striped tie every day but Saturday, always smiling his white-grinned blue- eyed smile. At Christmastime, he’d bring home a tree, hide it in the garage for a surprise. He could make his biceps bounce in time to music to amuse us or whisk his belt off in fury like a whip. He was a force that mellowed with time like winter softening into spring. But an obituary is naked facts: date place survived by— flat as a hospital bed. How can I say how can I tell you he was the wild sky cracking thunder the rain lashing down the roof that kept us dry-- |
About the author:
Suanne Fetherolf lives in New Jersey where she earned her M.A. at Drew University. She teaches English and creative writing. Her work has appeared in such journals as Spoon River Poetry Review, The Milo Review and Isthmus. |