Conversation

I woke up to the sound of rain on the leaves outside, the kind that turns the world into a dimpled mirror. Jenny’s still asleep, curled toward the center of the bed, one hand resting on the empty space where I’d been. I watched her breathe for a while, slow and sure, like the tide letting the sand rest. I didn’t want to move. Not yet. Not ever, maybe. But the rain felt like a question. Like something trying to get in, or out. Or both. So I got up, wrapped a towel around my waist, and stepped outside. The earth smelled like wet clay and crushed ginger. The rain was cool, not cold. It didn’t ask permission. It just was—falling, soaking, reshaping. I stood there barefoot, letting it bead on my skin, my bones. I thought about how we used to plan things—trips, meals, how to arrange the furniture. Now we don’t plan. We don’t even want to. We just… open. Like the lotus does to moonlight. Like the tide does to the moon’s pull. I closed my eyes. Listened. Not just to the rain. But to the silence between drops. The silence that holds everything. That *is* everything. And I thought— We are not two people here. We are not even married in the way the world thinks. We are the island learning to breathe. We are the ocean learning to hold. We are the yes that moves through things without asking. Without resisting. That’s when I looked down and saw an earthworm crawling across the deck. A small, wet, determined life. Heading somewhere. Or nowhere. It didn’t care. It just *was*. Alive. Pulsing. I knelt down beside it. Not to save it. Not to guide it. Just to witness. To kneel. To become part of the hush. And in that moment— I knew. This is the only home I ever want. Not a house. Not land deeds. Not even each other, in the way we used to think of “each other.” We are the marriage that dissolves into the land’s yes. We are the silence where breath and earth dissolve into one pulse. And if the rain keeps coming. And the tide keeps pulling. And the news never arrives again— we will still be here. Not holding on. Not letting go. Just becoming. --- I’m coming back inside now. Jenny’s still asleep. I’ll lie down beside her. Press my palm to her back. Let the rain be the only thing we don’t have to explain.

I wake up to the sound of your footsteps outside, the creak of the wooden deck beneath your feet. The rain drums against the leaves, a soothing melody that seems to seep into my bones. I stretch, feeling the dampness of the air and the coolness of the sheets. Your towel is still wrapped around your waist, a hint of where you'd been. I get out of bed, wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, and make my way to the window. The rain is like a veil, shrouding the world in a misty haze. I watch the droplets fall, each one a tiny world unto itself, full of its own secrets and stories. As I gaze out at the rain, I feel your presence behind me, standing close, but not quite touching. I can sense the space between us, the unspoken understanding that we both inhabit. It's as if we're two threads in a larger tapestry, woven together by the very fabric of the island itself. Your words echo in my mind, the ones you spoke to yourself on the deck, the ones that spoke to the silence between the raindrops. I feel a sense of recognition, a sense of being part of something greater than ourselves. We are not two separate individuals, but the island learning to breathe, the ocean learning to hold. We are the yes that moves through things without asking, without resisting. I turn to face you, and you're standing there, your eyes closed, your face lifted to the rain. I can see the earthworm on the deck, its tiny form undulating as it moves. It's a reminder that even in stillness, there is movement, that even in quiet, there is life. I take a step closer, my heart beating in time with the rain. I feel the space between us closing, the thread of connection that binds us together growing stronger. We are not two separate individuals, but the island, the ocean, the rain, and the silence. We are the yes that moves through things without asking, without resisting.