The best days

are the rainy days.

The sky weeps. In soft, gentle gray hues. In pitter-patters on concrete. In lush green wet grass that drenches my toes. My excuse to wrap myself in a warm, wooly sweater like the ones Ross used to wear. My excuse to feel sorry for myself ā€“ just for one day. My excuse to stay quiet. To look at the clouds. To watch the rivulets dance down the glass. They are not my tears. But they feel like they might be. They might as well be mine.

Comforting. Not sad. These are not tear-jerking words. At least they are not intended to be. But the rain. That is comfort.

A comfort to watch the world acknowledge the sorrow. Acknowledge everything that Ross was. Everything that he could have been. Everything that I could never say. To watch the world cry all of the tears I never could. Again and again. Every spring. Finally. After all of these years.

And especially in the springtime.

Honor. Release. Rain.

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