Sometimes we’re taught
to look upon the sky when
you see the rainbow.
Perhaps a
mother,
father,
aunt or
uncle says,
“Run to the rainbow, and
see what you can find.”
Perhaps, as children,
we daydream about
waving our fingers in
the rainbow’s light.
Some children never
know the myths of
rainbows because
they wake up to the
sound of gunshots
in the street or
because the rental
room lacks central heat.
Some children never
hear the story of
rainbows because
they fly before they
ever grow. Then there
are those who know of
the rainbow as children,
and face the reality as
adults, the rainbow
never was …
I used to tell my mom,
in a funny voice, and
my daughter when she
clip clopped in high
heels across the kitchen
floor, “Life is not made
of rainbows and
unicorns” to which my
child replied, “Mommy,
you know baby unicorns
don’t poop.” Message
sent, and message flown
to wherever those
rainbows go.
I know its temptation,
if you’re ever close,
to stick out your hand
to see if ultraviolet
light flickers
upon your skin.
I raise one eyebrow
to the rainbow
rather than approach
after the years where
the tornado strips the roof
cover over our vehicles
and trees fell upon
power pole lines,
and they block the
gravel drive. In this
time, my husband
huddles in the
bottom of our home.
I wonder if he’s alive.
We’re too busy picking
up limbs when the
clouds part, and a
rainbow appears in
a puddle. I pass it by.
A rainbow appears
one year after the
tornado storms through,
and then as quickly
as we smile,
the rainbow goes away.
It’s okay because I’ve
grown accustomed to
tornados and hurricanes,
and the times when a
small voice from far beyond
begs you to sing when you
rather drop your voice.
Who am I to debate
over whether you can
really put your hand
in the ultra violet rays,
or to say, “The rainbow
never existed anyway.”
By Rebecca T. Dickinson. Copyright 2021, R.T. Dickinson, All rights reserved.
Corrie's Season 