Drip, drip, drip.
I hear it, once again.

In each falling drop.
It is felt.

“Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain …”

Drip, drip, drip.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

Drip, plop. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Plop, drip.
______________________________

“ … let me be alone again …”
______________________________

“Do you want more rice, or more beans?”

One year, three years, ten years, later …

… that is the question that Dad asks me.

Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle.
______________________________

The flank steak juices fall.
Drip, drip, fzzz.

“Do you want more rice, or more beans?”
 
“ … but little does she know that when she left that day, she took my heart …”
______________________________

Stepping out of my room I smell it again.

Fat, rendering. Juicy, on the grill.

Drip, drip, drip.
Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle.

A broken man, flipping sustenance on the grill for his broken girl.
______________________________

The smell tempts me.

I think it tempts you too …
______________________________
 
“Ann Marie, you need to eat.” (I think he is telling me I need to live.)

“Yeah, I guess I am hungry.” (I try to tell him the same.)
______________________________

Bleary eyed, and sad, you turn to me, facing away from the grill.

“Would you like seconds?” (I think you are trying to say, “I love you”.)

“Yes. I would. Thank you.” (I think I am trying to say, “I love you” back.)

We look at each other, hiding emotions. Eyes and hearts hidden. You scrape the grill, I scrape the plate. And we continue on, silent in our suffering. Forks scraping our plates, saying what we cannot say to each other.
_________________________________________

Over the weekend, we listen to music, forgetting our unspoken “grill” conversation.

You turn up the volume dial on the radio.

“ … looking for a brand new start …”

Each of us smile, finally making eye contact. And then go back to our plates, knives and forks digging in.
_________________________________________

Drip, drip, drip.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

I sit, alone, in my room. As you do, in your own.

“ … rain, please tell me now, does that seem fair …”

Listening. Listening to the “drip-drip” of the rain.

Stepping out of my room, I flash back.
Dinners cooked.

Stepping out of your room, you flash back.
Dinners cooked.

Our eyes meet, and we turn back … heads bowed down.
_________________________________________

“ … pitter-patter, pitter-patter …”

The pitter is the patter of steak, and fat …

… falling to the coals.
_________________________________________

Pitter … the scrape of a knife on the plate.

Patter … the throwing of that same knife on a plate.

Pitter-patter … the sound of loss, and anger, being thrown at each other across dinner.

Silent, in our stares. Silent …

… in our silence.

In our blame.
_________________________________________

Pitter …

Patter …

_________________________________________

I step out of my room, in 2010, and …

I flash back.

Flash back to dinner.

Drip, drip, drip.
_________________________________________

The smell of water.
The hiss of meat in the oven.

The sound of rain.
The feeling of drops on the roof.

Both say,
“Hiss, hiss, hiss.”

Both carry with them a smell.
A memory.
_________________________________________

Pitter …

Cutlery, falling …

Patter …

Tears, falling …
_________________________________________

Pitter …

Tears, falling …
_________________________________________

Patter …

Cutlery, falling …

_________________________________________

Pitter, patter.

Pitter, patter.
_________________________________________

Tears and cutlery have been tossed aside.

Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain.

For many years, all I felt was sadness. But now? I get it.

A parent, and even a child, can feel the same pain. The same loss.

_________________________________________

What is it telling you?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQstQST1GiM