I stand upon the sidewalk, the rain pouring down upon my uncovered head. It has been 25 years since I stood in this spot with icy beads trickling slowly down my spine. My shirt is heavy upon my back, as my thoughts drip backward through the years, and puddle into a pool of memories.

Her breath was warm against my neck, as I held the umbrella above her head. Lightning flashed through the gray afternoon, and the thunder cracked so close I felt it vibrate through her chest. Or was it her heart I felt as I pulled her close?

In an instant the light was inside me, crackling like static until I couldn’t breathe anything but the air inside her. I held the umbrella as her fingers slipped like fish through the waves of my hair. Closing my eyes, I tried to hold the moment, but it dripped, like so many drops of water through my fingers.

She left, and she faded with each remembrance, until there was nothing left of her but the darkened stains of memories like water upon my clothes.

The passing cars leave plumes of water like comet tails behind them. I turn the memory over in my mind, its surface worn smooth like a pebble in a stream. I feel the ache in my side, the pressure on my neck where her arms were draped.

With sweet pleasure, these wounds are bleeding still.


17 thoughts on “Stigmata

    • The funny part is, I kind of like the pain. The wounds of old hurts, and loves remind me that I am human. Nostalgia is my favorite drug. I want to remember everything about life, good or bad. Now that my kids are growing into tweens, memories like these are one way to stay connected to what they will be feeling and going through.

  1. See this is beautifully written and I felt that achy weirdness that comes with this type of memory but here’s is where I think my problem is….
    What do you mean you don’t want to hear my problem? Too bad, here it comes….

    So, when I decide to say adios to a person I seemingly can’t summon this kind of nostalgia.
    For instance I was recently somewhere that was the arena for a major emotional explosion for myself and this other person and someone who I was with had to remind me and give me the blow by blow. Then it turned into a roaring laughfest.

    I’m sure my shrink would have a field day with what she would consider horrible pent up repression but I’m starting to feel it’s just stone cold undiluted bitchery. I just don’t care.
    The guy didn’t name me “ice Queen” and “succubus” for nothin’

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