1. New

Drip. Splash. Plink.

The start of a rainstorm. One little drop. I see it shatter as it hits the rock. The grass blades tremble, the broken water falls to their tips. 

Drip. Splash. Plink. 

There's another. 

Drip. Drip. Plink. Drip. Splash.

I sit protected under the awning. The rain cannot reach me. It's coming faster now. Why does the sky bother me, so? I did nothing to hurt it. I did not shout or scold.  I did not hurl curses or taunts? So why, why does it rain? Why does it unload its wet upon me? Why does it trap me here?

I cannot go out, or it will soak me. So I sit and I wait.

Drip. Splash. Plink.

The trees don't seem to mind. They are unmoved by the rain. A torrent could fall and still they would stand there. Why are they not troubled by this rain? Are they mightier than the sky? Perhaps I will test the rain. I reach my fingers out of my covering. But, no! The rain is wet. The rain is cold. I withdraw. 

Drip. Splash. Plink. 

My fingers tips are muddied. The uniform tan of my hand is marred by swirls of dark. Why does my rock not protest? It is speckled and scarred. It is no longer the beautiful smooth stone it was this morning. The rain has damaged us both.

Drip. Plink. Drip. Drip. 

How? The rock is no longer speckled but solid again. How? How has it survived? Is the rock mightier than the sky? If a rock a

Can beat the sky, can I? 

Again I reach my hand into the cold, hard rain. I tense as my fingers touch the wetness. I recoil, the feeling too much.

And yet...

Pink.

My fingertips are pink. No longer brown and muddied, but pink. Not tan. Not brown. 

Pink. 

Out again. I brace for the cold punch of the water on my skin, but I do not feel it. I stare, mesmerized as my hand changes. Tan melts into brown. And brown runs into pink. 

I remove to my safety.

Drip. Splash. Plink.

Splash. Splash. The trees stand unmoved. The rock lies solid.

And the grass dances.

What do they know that I do not? Why does the grace move as if it rejoices? It is rain. Rain is punishment. Why does the grass dance?

Pink. I had forgotten I was pink. The dust of my life, the dust of my days. I have become tan. But I should be pink. 

Drip. Splash. 

Drip. Splash. Plink.

 The rain pours. I step out. First one foot, now another. Further from my covering. The droplets bite my skin. I am no longer protected. 

And yet, the pain becomes smooth. I amturning  pink. This is why the grass dances. This is why the trees stand unmoved. This is why the rock does not complain. This is why the grass dances. 

We are new.