The Last Rain

The Last Rain - Nishka Bijumalla (Oswego East High School, Twelfth Grade)

As a child, I was a drought,

and grandfather was my rain.

I remember how, in the village,

his silver eyes sparkled with stories,

nourishing me with wisdom.

Steady and sure like the fall of rain,

he was always there,

a force I could depend on.

But now,

I sit by his bed,

roles reversed.

Once, he was my strength,

now, I hold his hand,

as his silver eyes fade to gray,

dull, like the sky before the endless quiet.

The hospital room hums softly,

the beep of machines flatlining,

like the last drops of rain,

dripping,

slow,

reluctant.

The rain has stopped.

I remember his voice —

rich with thunder, full of life.

Now, there is nothing but silence.

I remember his eyes —

full of stories, full of spark.

Now, they are hollow,

like a cloudless sky,

a memory of storms long gone.

The ground lies still,

its cracks deepening,

waiting for rain that will never come.

And the village,

it waits.

Silent.