'It happened the day it rained fish' by Lucy Brighton

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.