Deluge

This?  This isn’t rain…

She would gather up my notes, my scribblings…my pieces of words and strings of letters…adjectives and nouns, descriptions and metaphors…

Tiny gifts and gestures, shells from a distant beach, sand from a nearby sea, little things…

Pieces of glass, parts of a day, hours of moments, snippets of time…

Remembered scents, brushes against, discrete glances, unspoken sentences…

A brief compliment.  A paragraph of interest.

A memory.

Another memory.

A forgotten one.

Remembered in a moment, suddenly, like a dirty thought.

And she would gather all of this in her hands…fold them, spindle them and then tear into bits, tear into pieces, confetti, garbage, snippets, fragments, chunks and morsels….and in rubbing her hands together create such a deluge that would fall from her, the tiniest portions of me that she scattered across an afternoon that everybody else considered rain.