weal

"Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation."

I miss you most on the days when it's sunny and the beams soak into my skin, making it a little redder than it needs to be. My skin always burned and then turned white again, like hitting an arm on the stove and watching the weal form. The scar a reminder of the past - the problem is whether the past that it reminds you of is either beautiful or ugly.

No words can do you justice, and no song or skit or play could relive your life the way an old photograph could - your son and your daughter laugh and play like any normal children but something will always be missing.