It happened the day it rained fish. I’m glad because that gave it a sense of occasion, otherwise it
would just be the day you left. I could have pretended you were going out to get milk - only you
had your suitcase and a face full of disappointment.
I wonder if you drove through the fish rain? We would have argued about it. You’d have said it
was the wrath of the Almighty. That he’d scooped up the fish and thrown them at us in temper.
I’d have said it was a tornado, a clash of weather pressure. And who exactly do you think
creates the weather? You’d have asked, the jut of your chin indignant.
I wanted to ask if you’d prayed for this, for some punishment to befall me? You’d have told me
that not everything was about me. I could have called. But I knew you wouldn’t answer. Or did I?
Or was I scared that over the phone there would only be words left. And the word you needed
was sorry. But I didn’t have it to give.
So I watched the news and grumbled to no one at all about the fish rain.
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