Chris King Wong

I was walking down the street the other day when it started raining. It began as a light drizzle, falling harder and faster and colder with every exhaled ghost of a breath that I could muster. I couldn’t wait to get home, slide out of my rain-soaked clothes and into the warm embrace of an open fire. And in that moment I realized that I don’t like the rain quite as much as I used to.

The pitter-patter of raindrops drip-dropping on my shoulders seems just a little offbeat. Falling like millions of tiny, little specks cleaning this canvas of an earth we call home. Washing away the brushstroke mistakes of our past. Lifting smears of lust and heartbreak. So I walk silent into the downpour. Walking down a street lined with spiderwebbed cracks. Walking to a clock that won’t stop ticking, telling me that I’ve wasted my time. Telling me that I’ve ruined everything good that I’ve ever had. Telling me that I’m too broken to take one more step. Too hurt to do much more than lay down on the ground and die, embracing the rain for what it is, letting it wash down my bones hoping it will leave me as clean as this canvas that I call home.

And the angels they look down and laugh. They dip their halos into ancient oceans of broken dreams and cries for help that have swirled since Adam took his first breath. Then they pull them out and blow giant bubbles watching them pop and pour down from the heavens, and the rain hits as cold as the hearts of shadows, and the trillions of droplets fall from skies that are the eyes of heaven. So I run inside. And I can’t escape because the angels they use the clouds as magnificent amplifiers, bursting with twisted lightning played on their rock and roll guitars. Electrifying a night sky wrought with flashes bursting like the millions of bulbs of cameras trying to capture the moment Zeus himself came alive to applaud with claps of thunder. And it keeps me up all night. They flap their wings and if butterflies can stir oceans then the angels can swirl galaxies into shapes we can’t even comprehend. And the gale they concoct is merciless. It pounds windows and trees and people like little ragdolls. Threatening the limbs of streetlights and stop signs; an invisible force barreling through the corridors of brick lined allies and chain linked fences. And then it stops. As quickly as it came. And I feel so infinitely small, helpless to do anything to stop nature and its course. Helpless to stop the rain or the thunder or the wind. And helpless to stop the color from draining out of my father’s face when he was told that he had cancer.

And now the angels have stopped to watch us. Watch us stand helpless, praying to a clock that won’t stop ticking. And I look up to him. And I tell him that I love him. And you’re going to make it Dad. Because if you don’t then who will I call when my car breaks down? And if you don’t then who will teach me how to put up Christmas lights? And if you don’t then who will my kids call Grandpa? And if you don’t, then who will I have to speak and laugh and celebrate and cry with for everything that I’ve ever done and everything that I have yet to do? And if you don’t then where will I go and if you don’t then who will I be? Because I’ve fucked up everything good that I’ve ever had in my life. And the last thing I want ruined is us.

So my father looks down at me. His gaze framed in the wrinkles of years unkind to an honest man. He tells me to calm down and that everything will be alright. And his words mean nothing to me. Because I’m too far gone in his eyes and they tell me everything that I need to know. That he’s just as scared as I am.

And I realize that the rain has stopped. And as I look to the window, I see that the horizon itself has blinked. The sun is now but a pupil, the night sky but an iris, and the universe but an eye the color of stars. And still I feel so infinitely small, cursing a clock that won’t stop ticking. Helpless to hold back tears built up behind 19 years of growing up way too fast. So I let them fall. Like raindrops falling from my eyes of heaven.

And the angels fall silent. But I don’t care. For their halos or their wings. Because the rain can fall on me forever. Just as long as my father is the angel pouring it down on me.

          -chriskingwong