Seven

An old, umbrellaed woman comes, wobbling on the uneven wood chips beneath her feet. She grows blurrier as she moves, less and less distinct from the pouring rain around her.

Near the slide, she bends stockinged knees, leans on her cane while left hand reaches for the ground. She folds her legs, twists a little to sit. Hands behind her shift her back, along the rough mulch, underneath the slide.

Rain pelts the aluminum, gathers its splashing self into drops, runs gullies down the corners of the slide. Beside it, the woman has left the umbrella, open and up, catching rain, pooling water, reflecting dimpled gray. There were dimples in Grammadame's cheeks.

Greta, swinging, up, down, stomach dropping beneath wet shirt. Rain hits harder when you move. Watching, staring, wet, red eyes.

Beneath the slide, the shape , rocking, slowing like breath. Slow. Slow. Rhythmic. Slow. Wind whips as breath dies. Death coming, pooling in an umbrella, preparing to tip.

The woman stops rocking, stretches prostrate in the slide strip of dry, almost invisible. Blurry like memories, wet, uncomfortable. Still. Still.

Had her grammadame crawled beneath a slide? Had anybody seen? Could the man from L'Royale feel it pelt like rain when you move, sink in, soak?

Greta flew, jumped from the swing, walked, bent beneath the slide. This was the face on the poster in the lobby of the apartment building. A teller of fortunes, future, future, what would come, future. So old, past, past, future with past.

Greta bent to kiss her.