Play #16

Rain Remembers

__________________________

A short play

By Joseph Frost

Originally written as a part of

31 Plays in 31 Days

August 22, 2021

Contact:
710 Newland Dr
Jackson MS 39211
FrostJosephD@gmail.com
*member, Dramatists Guild
 An older woman, RAIN, stands center stage.
Her hands are on the sides of her face.

RAIN
I was told all my life that I wasn’t there. That it was such a relief to everyone that I
hadn’t been there, that I hadn’t seen what had happened. How could a girl so young carry
those images around in her head? We’re just so glad she wasn’t there.
(beat)
I never told them. How could I tell them? It was their sole solace. They had experienced
so much, they were infected with the plague of knowledge, of memory. And the only
relief they had, was the refuge of my ignorance. I couldn’t tell them. I never told them.
(beat)
It would come up. Not every day, but enough that there were opportunities. But always
the same conversation. “That’s when...” “what” “the disaster”. That’s what it was referred
to. The disaster. “Oh yes.” “And this little one was spared” “she wasn’t there” “no,
thank the lord above” “that would have been awful” “it would have been, but she was
spared” “yes, thank the good lord above”. Thank him.
(beat)
I often wondered what it meant that I had actually been there. What it meant about the
lord above. The good lord being so thanked for sparing me from it, when he actually
hadn’t. Was he no longer good? Had he ever been good? Was he even above?
(beat)
I’ve heard questions about him and his existence. Often. When things go bad. There
doesn’t seem to be much point in asking when things go good. Or well. That’s not when
we ask. We’re comforted in the goodness, so we feel the goodness around, and it isn’t a
question. Or not one worth asking. Yet.
(beat)
It felt awful, to not tell the truth. To let them continue to believe a lie. It gnawed inside
me. We were a truth telling family. Punishment for not telling the truth. To do
something bad was one thing, but lying about it would only make things worse. To hide
the truth was the strongest trespass, and would bring the strongest punishment. And
nothing was worse than seeing the disappointment in my grandmother’s face when, in her
eyes, I could finally see the truth revealed in her mind. The turn from trusting me,
waning away, like a cloud obscuring a sun. Nothing worse.
(beat)
So I buried it. So deep that it would never be found. Deep beyond my own thoughts,
beyond my memory and recall. Until it lodged, somewhere, soul-deep, where to dig it up
would collapse everything built upon the ground used to bury it. To unearth it would be
calamity. To unsoul it would destroy me.
(beat)
And yet.
(beat)
I remember everything about that day. Every single thing.
 2.

(beat)
The smell of fresh rain and flowers. The heat. The sounds I listened for as distraction.
The sting. The bright flashes that caused me to squint, even in daylight. The falling
debris, showering down from above. The river of red. The cold stone crevice where I
hid, for what must have been hours. The cold fall of night. Then voices, crying out as
quietly as possible. My name. Over and over. In different voices, high and low, strong
and whistling, until hands. On my arms. Pulling me. Up. Out. And then. Embrace. I
was found. I was safe. I had been spared. Spared. Thank the good lord above. Praise
the good lord above.
(beat)
I let them believe. Because I couldn’t tell them. I allowed them to believe. Because I
could let the words out. And as time wore on, it became the foundation. The foundation
on which it was built. On which I was built. And to let it go...
(beat)
And eventually, I was as glad as they were. That I hadn’t been there. That I had been
spared from seeing what had happened. And like everyone else, I told myself I hadn’t
been there.

Rain lowers her hands and closes her eyes.

End.