It feels wrong to speak of rainbows. To write about them is like trying to put a net around the breeze, to attempt to scoop up sunlight in a bowl. I have seen but a handful of rainbows and even that feels incorrect to say since I’ve never grasped at them. Just a breezy tip of three or four fingers, moistened by wonder & tears. How can you even count a rainbow?
A rainbow became a symbol, an angry grin of pain. Its depictions violently-hued, quite unlike the real thing. And yet, what is real about refraction & a play of heat & moisture? I’m not chasing symbols when it’s futile to chase their very inspiration.
I don’t like what one must survive to glimpse a rainbow. There is no romance in rainfall that makes air too heavy to breathe. No glory in survival, which is what we call the cessation of the deluge, the unshackling of the constraints on lungs. Our sighs & stolen breaths misting our view along with the spray.
After the tears,
after the hacking sobs cease,
there is stillness.
A brief moment
before the rain begins again,
triggered by another cloud,
another clash of heat & wind
& too long withheld burdens.
It will rain, it will rain again. And if there is respite, it will be but a breath, one of many, punctuated by sobs & flashes. And finally, will be one breath that is just pure gratitude. For air & for clarity, even if it is but for a moment.
And in that breath, if it is possible to look beyond the horizon of cement block buildings. IIf that one breath can carry you over the memory of the struggling, then up in the dark clouds, the sun will reach out a sunbeam to earth. And in that split second before words, you know something whose knowing will slip past your mind as easily as the drops that evaporate on your face. You are one with what you just felt. You were what you saw. Even if you didn’t notice it. You won’t remember my friend, that rainbows are free. Even a rainbow doesn’t remember it existed.
©Ramya Pandyan | @ideasmithy