The Raindrop...

When I dream, I dream of a raindrop. A single, solitary raindrop caught amongst sable hair. It flashes in its multicoloured glory before my eyes. A spectrum of colours glittering as vivid as any stained glass. For a moment it pauses in its perfection and I admire it. But too soon it is dashed away by heavy fingers, cast aside unheeded. As it crashes to the ground a thousand of my memories splinter with that drop across the damp earth.

Broken fragments of another lifetime. The sound of breathless laughter. The faint scent of rosemary. And that one, flawless, raindrop.

I open my eyes and once more I am a girl again.

The sun is high in the summer sky, burning a trail across the field and the bridge of my nose. As I lie in the grass, my fingers playing with the textured strands, I gaze up at the wide canvas. My hand reaches out and I paint the firmament. There a queen with a trailing gown. There a dog fetching a stick. There a – 

                “-What’s that?” My companion asks with amusement. I turn to him, crushing the verdant carpet beneath my moving body.

                “Clouds. Pictures in the clouds. Can you not see them?”  A wry smile crosses the familiar face,

                “I’ve no imagination. I’m a pig-headed solider. Barbaric in fact.” I laugh with him, unable to remember when or why I had been angry enough to say those words. “But you’re a wild thing. Untamed. More at home out here than in any castle or church.” My heart beats erratically, feeling uncomfortable within my chest, and I am suddenly shy beneath his steady gaze.

                I take the flower that I hold clenched between my fingers and push it behind his ear. My hand rests on his face for a fraction of a second longer than it needs to. Leaning back I giggle at the image he presents. So stern and fierce and proper. I want to paint him too. Hold him in this moment.

                This is our goodbye. And I feel a strange sense that this moment is important. But it passes, just like the clouds that cover the sun momentarily. The wind lifts my hair from my face, capturing the lingering fragrance of rosemary. He draws closer and I know he can sense it too. Our eyes hold for an instant in the silence, until my gaze is drawn to the single raindrop that balances upon his dark head.

                The single drop becomes two... three... four...five. I tip my face up, enjoying the refreshing coolness of the water against my sun-warmed skin. Laughter rises within me and I grab his hand with mine, pulling until we are both standing and then we are running.

                I feel reckless and free like a bird finally taking flight. My feet bare, the grass stroking gently at my skin, my hair tangling madly behind me. Breathless we rest beneath a tree, sheltered from the slow but insistent rain. I feel reckless and free so I hold him close. His hands seek my face, rough fingertips tracing my features. A raindrop drips from his hair and it slides down my face like a tear. My eyes flicker closed and I feel him bending his head to mine.

My eyes open and he is gone.

The dream ended as quickly as it had begun.

I dream of that raindrop often. The water blurs his face now, when once it was as familiar as my own. I’m forgetting a lot of things now though. They say I did not know my own son when he visited me last week. But this is one memory, one dream, which I refuse to have taken from me. I may have to live out the remainder of my life in this remote priory, an old sick woman of no use to anybody, but I shan’t give him up.

When I dream, I dream of a raindrop. A single, solitary raindrop caught amongst his sable hair. He leans that dark head toward me and holding my hand he walks beside me across the field that leads to home.