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Restless rain

Picture of a gate by the Old North Bridge by Merlina McGovern

It's one of those restless, near-rainy nights. It's a cliche, but yes the wind is whispering through the trees. It's starting to pick up because I can hear the heavy swinging of my neighbor's wind chimes. If I close my eyes, the sounds of wind and rain bring me back to when I was visiting my sister in her final days. Her lovely husband had purchased soothing ambient sounds to play on a small radio; it calmed her restless nerves.

I usually turn to games to take my restless mind off of the crazy hectic blaring noise of life. But not tonight. Tonight is a night for thoughts and remembrances. I took this picture of an old gate when my parents came to visit for the winter holidays. It was an unusually warm December day, so we made the trek to the Old North Bridge. I loved the look of the rusting curling iron framing the red, red brick that looked to be almost held up by, but also crumbling under, the gnarled winter-dried foliage. I remember looking down through the gate and wanting to explore, but I heard my family calling; it was time to go.

It's a place, and it was a time of year that evoked such strong memories and feelings for me. I think my sister would have loved it there. The history wouldn't have interested her so much, but the feeling of the place, the feel of the history, that she would have loved.

If I close my eyes, I can remember her in those final days. We would sit in the dark in her living room, listening to the sound of waves crashing; her slim, too slim, cool hand in mine. My eyes would close. The rhythmic beat of water falling, falling on itself. I would forget everything, everything except for the feel of her hand in mine.


THE LAST night that she lived,
It was a common night,
Except the dying; this to us
Made nature different.
  
We noticed smallest things,—        5
Things overlooked before,
By this great light upon our minds
Italicized, as ’t were.
  
That others could exist
While she must finish quite,        10
A jealousy for her arose
So nearly infinite.
  
We waited while she passed;
It was a narrow time,
Too jostled were our souls to speak,        15
At length the notice came.
  
She mentioned, and forgot;
Then lightly as a reed
Bent to the water, shivered scarce,
Consented, and was dead.        20
  
And we, we placed the hair,
And drew the head erect;
And then an awful leisure was,
Our faith to regulate.
—Emily Dickinson

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