Now that it had rained

While Alec filled the gas tank, I was sitting in the passenger seat, enjoying the golden sun on a swaying jacaranda tree, when a drop of rain plopped on the window, then another, and more. Each of the few drops landed with soft thuds, diamond beads scattered around clear, colorful globes, hanging there like commas. When we left, we drove down Market Street by the cemetary fresh with grass and green weeds, damp shoulders tapped by the sun. San Diego was full of color again. Without the rain, San Diego had dried and withered, like a paragraph that doesn't end, like waking up before getting any sleep.

Earlier today, when we were leaving school, we saw two rainbows. One was dim, and one was full, like the blank space at the end of a chapter, like those minutes of falling asleep, like dancing again.