At first, our connections form a mist—
a gentle veil that hovers in the morning air,
soft and undefined, barely visible.
As we age, the mist becomes a sprinkle—
tiny droplets that ground us to earth,
each one a promise of something more.
Then the drizzle comes through,
a steady rhythm on the windowpane,
and on comes a thin continuous stream of interconnectedness,
weaving through the years like silver threads.
The connections flit in and out like shadows,
heavy showers shape us,
torrential downpours test our souls,
monsoonal years flood our hearts,
and random cloudbursts catch us by surprise.
Until we find our way back again,
to the quiet stillness before the storm.
In the end, the loud raindrops sound
as our friends leave this world—
each drop a memory, a final echo.
We look up and see the mist returning,
drifting through our thoughts.
We remember the connections we had,
the rivers between us,
the storms that bound us.
We remember the mist, and then; we join it.