Even fallen angels miss the clouds, she says.

When it rains, she keeps quiet. I’ve learned to look away from
the whole of her on those days, keep my eyes up towards the
skylight, watch the rain come for me but never reach, never
touch. I don’t want to be cleansed. But when I search for her
from beneath my lashes, she is outside on the grass, arms
outstretched.
Big storms are her favorite: thick droplets catch the hairs on
her forearms, pour down like velveteen drapes. With the light
like this, I see wings. I see remorse. Here she is, an offering.
With the light like this, I know she spits apologies to the
heavens. I know she remembers her mother’s slamming door.
The stench of burnt trees, lightening. Running, running,
running. I know she will curl up on the couch tonight to the
lull of the TV.  
I know, I know. She wants to go home. When it rains, she keeps
quiet, gathers the drops like a scientist, keeps them in jars on
her nightstand. A reminder. Sin and mercy. Resentment and
forgiveness. When it rains, when it rains, when it rains. When it’s
over, I catch her tears with my palms. She’s still quiet.