How long will it be?
How much can she take?

I can see the straw drifting down slowly from somewhere above. It is certainly taking it's time but it's coming. oh it's coming. And it will get here- when? In a week? A month? Maybe four?

Wind whips at her precious cheeks and colors them rouge. She stands, though: always remains standing. The torrent does not cease and the calm is no where in sight.

Where is the light at the end of the tunnel?
It must be too far away. So far away. Even when I squint, the darkness overcomes me. but I am not lost. no, not this time.
Again, this rain tumbles in varying patterns. She is soaked to the core, shivering. The sun revels in it's own warmth, just beyond the clouds. In a place behind the rain. If only the clouds would break. would that save her?

Once, in a movie, I saw a little girl blowing bubbles on her back porch made of very dark wood. There was a swing set in the background of the film and the petit blonde simply stood there, creating weightless spheres of iridescence and laughing at the camera. She giggled as one of her creations popped on the tips of her golden hair. And she continued to blow her bubbles.