i saw a small child standing almost perfectly still—
before a great red brick wall.
i watched with curious eyes as she stood, her back to me,
facing a wall extending forever into the sky—
so far as i couldn’t see.
and to me, slowly crawling forward on my knees,
with thin strands of faded denim dragging from torn jeans,
the sky knew no limit—
at least not one to hold back great walls.
but from all the days that passed since that afternoon,
i could see all the insignificance building up,
under the never-ending blue abyss stretching out—
above all the brick walls and all the children,
above all the curious eyes in the world.
her small feet were planted side-by-side in torn sneakers—
soul survivors of all the places they had been:
the rippling puddles of mud,
the waist-deep fields of burning grass,
sharp stones piling up on the sides of roads.
but this day, all those paths ended right here.
and resting, ever so slightly on the deep blackness,
she stood.
the dark pavement smoothed out beneath her feet
and under the great wall,
rolling over fading spots of scrapped knees,
and at the same time—
closer to me.
from where i stood, safely on the washed out grass,
i couldn’t see her face; under a great oak tree—
the shade covered my eyes.
a soft wind rolled in, carrying the sounds of the day:
of red traffic lights turning green and i told myself
that i had to go back, that my life was waiting—
back there.
all the other excuses i tried—i tried—
to make myself believe:
it’s not going to rain tomorrow.
the thousands of reasons,
empty and meaningless, over and over;
it’s not going to rain tomorrow.
but in truth, i was afraid.
in my dreams, i find the same wall—
under a blood-red sky.
and the same girl—still—stands still as i approach.
but there is no wind, and when i get close, i can see:
she has no eyes.
startled, i jump back. and as I do,
she slowly steps forward,
her body passing through the wall—
beyond the reaches of my eyes.
under the blue skies, my gaze begins to shift downward.
down to where the sun and shadows start to blend.
i feel the soft grass on my feet,
the quiet shade on my face.
i don’t have to turn around;
i know what’s back there.
the red traffic light turns green,
but i take a step forward—
push my hand through the wall—
it’s not going to rain tomorrow.