Driving Home from Tilghman Island in the Pouring Rain Cloud-shackled sky. Field of winter-burnt wheat gleaming in rain, seagrass bleached to brown. Power lines swaying. A lone farmhouse surrounded by wind-stripped trees. Through the cracked window, briny, pine-scented air. Static on the radio, a veil of rain on every road from here to home. The scent of incense, stale and musky, hangs in your hair and clothes. You lean forward in your seat, but deceived by distance and dark, see no better than before. The windshield wipers struggle and fail to keep pace with the storm. Tomorrow looms. Trash sputters across the road. You think this drive will break you, leave you lonely in your loneliness, but I promise it is not too late for your sorrow-shackled heart. It’s only rain, and when it lifts, the world will open up and you will see that all, even the rain, is gift.
Mary R. Finnegan is a writer and editor from Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in several places including The American Journal of Nursing, Lydwine, Catholic Digest, PILGRIM: A Journal of Catholic Experience. She is currently pursuing her MFA in poetry at The University of St. Thomas, Houston.