the wall

The rain strikes a chord. Not in the same way it strums you like a harp. It beats me like a drum in a tribal ceremony.

Back home, we used to watch the storm clouds roll over our beeline of colonial houses.  The trees were too tall and you couldn't see it until the skies were about to cry on you while you celebrated under them. 

We were in a cul-de-sac, with a gray road that saw storm after storm after storm.  Thirteen and shoeless, our calloused feet had run the streets of our piny neighborhood so many times they'd turned into bricks. And in the South, you don't wear shoes.

When you hear the rain coming, you run to the end of the street.  And when you see the rain sweeping toward you, you try to outrun it.  Laughing, pushing, racing like dogs.  Until it catches up.

We called it "The Wall". You could see the great trees start to rustle, you could hear the drops beating like marbles spraying across a wood floor.  And you could see the street turning black, the chalky road drinking heaven in as it pushed toward us.  And we had ten seconds to be dry. Nine. Eight.

It doesn't drip into the cracks of pavement and fall gently onto windows and rooftops like it does in Utah.  It's called a storm. It's the wall that wiped us out.

The wall that took it all away.

The wall that used to chase me and cry on me.

The wall I ran away from in my pursuit of staying dry. 

The wall that, no matter how fast I ran, would still catch up to me.

And I wish I could've gone outside today, and been wiped clean by the wall that heaven made me.

The wall I left my home for. To be here. To sit in scrawly classrooms with people that all looked the same.  

I tried to build that wall, but you can't copy heaven. You can't plagiarize God.

And now I know.