Inside Your Shadow (C) 2024 "Does Lightning Strike At The End of That Rainbow"-Holmes

 

            I’ve heard for quite some time, that water is one of the most powerful forces in the world, and beyond this world. In the big three major religions Islam, Judaism, and Christianity there are stories of the great flood. Water being a tool to purge the lands. Water gives life and takes life away. A major storm, named Katrina, did such things. I heard Katrina is German meaning is ‘cleansing.’ Baptism embarks on a spiritual rebirth involving water. Once I placed a hand held glass container that contained holy water. When I removed the barrier of one of my energy points, I took notice that with in days of removing the boundary, the water evaporated. Where’d all the water go? It went to many places, uncountable. This is a story of one drop.

One day he remembered to visit his grandmother. “After all she wouldn’t be around forever,” his father told him often. His father would die a couple days prior, The place had a two story Charnell House one could see, from the highway by the beach, all sorts of biblical scenes. “Funny how folks think of God stuff more when death effects them personally,” he mumbled to himself as he made the left turn into the dirt and gravel path. He looked at all the flowers in front of stone homes. He parked the car. Last time he was unable to find her. Damn, I used to drink a lot,” he grinned as he was satisfied with himself that he found her, “Thanx Loh’Rd.” he continued to smile as he noticed the weeds almost completely covered her and her husbands grave, his grandfather, that he never met because he died years before he was born. He had a machete in one hand, and carried a bag that contained a plastic bottle of lighter fluid. A pack of smokes and a cigarette lighter.

In a corner, close enough for him to be seen by an elderly man visiting his wife. The older man saw him and decided to call the Biloxi police. “I love you, May. The world is really a strange place,” William Ripley said over his wife’s grave. He had on a pink dress shirt and tan pants, with brown top sider shoes. He cared so much that he bought fresh flowers to put in the vase. He comes to the Broadwater Memorial Gardens every Monday. This particular Monday was special because it was their wedding anniversary. He felt the streaming tears go into the wrinkles of his face, like rain filling a valley. He smiled. He used to curse the Loh’Rd for making him old. For taking his May away. Yet now and for a short, he used to think too long when he was younger-that made all the difference. Thus he pulled out his black outdated cell phone and “Hello, is this Biloxi Police department,” Mr. Ripley sounded rather desperate. So, “Sir do you need to dial nine one one?” “Ugh the nerve.” “Sir. Ughm.” “That sughn uvah …” Mr. Ripley saw him squirt, for a long few seconds, lighter fluid on his grandparents grave. He was having memories of all those times he cut his grandmother’s yard flashed through his mind as he lit the flames. The hot Summer days, the smell of fresh cut grass. Every time he thought he was done with manicuring the yard, his father, most of the time dressed in a suit and tie because he just got off work, would find a small detail that he missed: a foot long weed, a patch of grass, a few blades on the walls on the outside of her house, or the lines in the grooves along the driveway not being edged deep enough. He’d always say, “Why didn’t you get this part? It got doo doo on it?”

 “There’s some punk desecrating graves out here.” Where is your location sir?” Broadwater Memorial Gardens.” “I’ll send someone.” “Thank you, Sir.” He used to really hate that his father made him work so hard. He’d wash the cars and miss a spot on the drywall of the tire, or there’d be a little dirt on the inside of the car door. Or if he didn’t have a shirt folded right, he’d dump the clothes on the floor. He used that as an excuse to hate his father for many years. Yet now, in that moment, as he dug the blade of the machete into the edges of the gravestone, and swept away the burnt weeds, he realized he had also removed the needless anguish.

He knew that his father had taught him to live life at a higher standard. “Malley, you there?” The dispatcher asked Officer Malley. “Yes.” “Mr. Ripley.” “Oh. Again.” Malley, “Well it just so happens.” He paused a minute, and looked to the left. Sure enough he saw the flame. “I’m right here.” After he said that, the bright sunny day changed in three seconds. Rain fell hard, “Well ain’t that something.” Suddenly, Malley didn’t want to confront the man burning weeds on the gravestone. Malley had that strange knot in his stomach. “That’s what he meant when he said, ‘The Sky IS Crying.’” He recalled that Stevie Ray Vaughn song. Ripley was disgusted by the rain, and quickly ran to his car that was ten feet away. He started his car and slowly started to drive on the gravel and dirt circle. “Darn it.” Two minutes later Ripley drove out of Broadwater Memorial Gardens. Malley drove slowly around the circle. He was wiping away the burnt weeds from the gravestone. He noticed that strange insects came from the cracks where the bronze vase once was. He looked up watching Malley. The rain stopped. Malley drove slowly by him, and they waved at each other. Then Mally drove out of the cemetery.  Ten minutes later, the grandson was driving down highway 90 quite happy. He noticed a rainbow that seemed to end or begin at Broadwater Memorial Gardens.