Letter Number 9

It is raining.

The wind is blowing and the light is gone.
The clouds move in and the dirt is wet,
and it is raining.

I sit on the couch and look at pictures.
I look but I don't smile, and I remember,
and it is raining.

The lights are on and they are giving me a headache.
The flowers on the table are dry and the plants in the garden are too,
and it is raining.

I still remember, and I remember the garden alive.
I remember to turn off the lamp  and it is dark,
and it is raining.

I stare at empty corridors and one closed door.
I try not to look at the closed door, and I close my eyes,
and it is raining.

I do not sleep, and I dream.
I think of the dead flowers and I think of the photographs,
and it is raining.

I try not to think and I can't not remember.
I think of ceremonies, black, goodbyes and I do not think of smiles and family,
and it is raining.

I don't look at the closed door and I don't try to remember.
I write letters that can't be sent, and I write letters that won't be seen,
and I think it is raining.