The Emptiness of Delete

Ron Delaney Jr
This weekend has been perfectly Autumn. Cold, clean air, falling leaves, and bone-chilling rain. To some, that kind of weather sucks, but to me – an October baby and loyal lover of all thing Fall (except this devilry) – it’s the best time of year, and really gets my creativity going.
On that note, here’s a weird, sad little thing that came to me the other day on a long ride through a persistent storm. Nothing fancy, just a rumination on how people see and feel things drastically differently (not just the weather).

 

There are several drops of water on my phone’s screen, some from the clouds, some dripping from my hair and glasses. I took it out as I stepped out of the car and was reminded of you as the cold Autumn rain hit my cheeks.

You love the rain. I picture you dancing, soaked, your spinning hair a prayer to the gods, your hands up and out saluting the wind, your unshoed and rain-washed feet stomping the earth-a bridge between soil and storm.

If I raise a hand, will that get me closer to you? Even inches closer, connected by drops from the same clouds, by howling wind from the same sky?

How long has it been since I held you, smelled your hair, and cursed myself for being bad for you? Too long and not long enough, because all I want to do, standing a drenched fool in the rain, is hear your voice.

But I deleted your number.

There are several drops of water on my phone’s screen, and nothing else.

 

Thanks for reading,

{RDj}