CHASING RAINBOWS
Rain streaks the windows and the streetlights spangle through the speckled pattern of droplines. I keep thinking I hear someone’s voice from the other room but it’s only the rain’s soliloquy. A pattering poetry of water and glass and the light shining through them. Someone at work asked me what’s happened to my usual sunny self. She said, “Where’s my Liz?” and I couldn’t look at her for a moment. I was afraid I’d cry. This whole week has been emotional: the sorrow wells up for the people displaced on the other side of the world, their stories spinning out...