Rain-Drops by Maria Fokas
I peeked out of my window this morning at 6 am. It had been raining all night. The misty damp air said, “Get back in bed”. But I keep my eyes on the rain, where stories come to life. It fervently thrums on roof-tops, and pavements; drip, drop, babble, drum – accent on the tempo, before another thrum.
I make myself some coffee; my lips tease the blend before I take that sip, then I click on the saxophone. I succumb to those sensual pictures from the late 1940s and 50s before my time. They did know much about the cries of art then. And 50 shades of grey was an elegant combination of vintage statements, not a virtual reality of shallow special effects – which by the way – are not so special. Back out of my window again – those epic colors of initial beginnings, that first moment we opened our eyes; we know it happened but we can’t recall it, that first cry of life we don’t recall either, but it happened, and we know it; the beginning of our quest; and then into the future I thrust.
A silver screen: My life flashes before my eyes, and I see you and what could have been and my heart breaks once again. The rain now absorbed into the buildings hovering over my window but inside my bedroom, there is a blend of spice and ocean hues scratching the surface of who I once used to be. All these things belonging to me; a leather bounded diary, some vanilla scented candles, my ‘secrets’ perfume, my tiny crystal eagle, miniature bronze frames of old photographs, my bookmarker “wherever you go, go with all your heart”, quote printed on it, from downtown Philly; south street to be exact; that mystical little shop where I bought my first moonstone ring. The saxophone in that dimmed 1950s tune keeps playing, and the coffee keeps echoing in a simple small room in the corner of nowhere.
Through the window, I reach out into a grey world; my world, in shades of cold, I recall the sound of “Singing in the Rain”, the beginning of a taste of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, and a longing for “The Glass Menagerie”, the one we went to see at some basement theatre, all those years ago. Gray does not seem so grey now.
I shut my eyes and I’m in New York; not Wall Street New York, or Manhattan New York – I’m in those neighborhoods with dusty maroon buildings, dressed in black-metal-fire escapes twirling and twirling around their lifeless brick bodies – and I sip my hot coffee with cream, mind you. The rain is tapping hard outside this secluded little diner, saxophone here too; so many little occupied corners dimmed; the stories it whispers in my ear; I’ll never tell.
I watch faces rushing by outside, with no time to enjoy the touch of the raindrops; for no time to savor the quest. I check my watch; time is on my side; hands have stopped; besides what better thing to do than stay here, to keep my life company. My hand fumbles inside my bag searching for pen and paper. I have to capture all these words rushing in from the rain.
And then a premonition; unforeseen but inevitable. No! Wait, don’t go away, I haven’t started yet. It all disappears. Everything fades away, disintegrating with the melancholy grey it came with.
Sunrays find their way into my room. The dream is gone.
© Maria Fokas 2015/All Rights Reserved
Artwork Credit: Surreal artwork by Christer