Into the puddle I looked, and saw my doppelganger staring back at me. The skies above were overcast; I could not tell if it portended an impending storm or – judging by the ripples on the puddle – if one had just passed.
I watched the ripples. There must have been four raindrops which had fallen earlier. Their perfect arcs pulsed outward. Overlapping, softly colliding. It would be much later that I understood the significance of that number, and what the ripples meant.
For the longest time I watched as the ripples attenuated and died. In the calm that followed, I was able to see the twenty seven winters I had lived.
Then two drops of rain fell lightly upon the puddle, one after the other, as the last of the ripples became one with the body of water.
Just when I was about to look away, two more fell and I could not tear my gaze away. The doppelganger blurred once more, its visage jagged beyond recognition from the little earthquakes on the crystalline surface of the looking glass.
Then one last drop fell. The most beautiful of all, its ripples coursed light like a feather across the puddle and barely disturbed the facsimile. The most beautiful, for I recognized it: it was a teardrop from the soul.
2 Comments
I just love the way you write, remarkably melancholic and poignant. Like how literature should be. I wish I can write like that too. :)
Thank you, becca.