Ashfall

by Conchitina R. Cruz

Before it was given a name, it was rain without drops, without sound, it was rain in slow
motion, regretting the many times it slapped against the ground, regretting its relentlessness.
It was rain resisting its temper, attempting tenderness. It was rain that wasnt rain at all, it was
snow, snow without the cold, without the sting in the air, the ache, the chill, snow out of
place, out of date, out of season. It was a tropical dream, new breath, a break in reason, a
pause between sun and rain and sun again and rain. It was treasure from the sky, a secret we
found out first, a prize for being good girls. It was reason enough to refuse to sleep, reason
enough to get up at three in the morning, reason enough to step out to the pavement and
hold up our arms to what was snow but not snow, rain but not rain, the world around us
turning pale, the world bled of color.
In a minute, somebody will wake up, somebody will be frightened by the open door, will
stumble to find us, will tell us to get in, will ask why what is falling from the sky is falling. We
will hear the word volcano, we will learn the name to fear. But right now, when there are no
labels yet, we lift our faces in thanks, our faces turning pale, what has yet to be named resting
lightly on our lashes.