It’s raining and my head is leaning, pressed against the window dreaming…not so much a dream as drifting…seems so long ago and yet. Days of summer, crystal clear…so hard to forget. The day before was brilliant blue filled with clouds of white. The subtleties of day and night were nothing more than words. No lines to blur, no poems to write, no worries when we’re ten. But then again, the sun’s a liar. The moon soon followed suit. And time was non-existent. Death was somewhere in the distance. More a word inside a book. Monsters crushing cars, rockets crashing into Marrs. James bond shooting bad guys, Dracula sucking blood. A flood of mass destruction comes when dreaming in the day. A thing that happened in the movies. Cartoon mayhem, cops and robbers. Pirates, Spacemen, Soldiers.

My Father was a soldier…Grandpa said he spent two and a half years in a VA hospital recovering. Recovering? Recovering from what? What did he mean? Why did he tell me that? We sit at the beach. My Father’s not there. As I recall, the clouds were once my friends as well. It’s hard to tell, pretending to be lost. The sky is a canvas in the mind of a child…running wild, those summer days I thought would never end. I saw the world so different then. No need for why, or what, or when.

It’s raining, and I thought I was sleeping. There’s music playing. My brother is in the front seat somewhere, lost inside his head. Imagination dogs me for it; all too soon it became a joker… but in my youth, it was a king. Was the devil always there? Waiting? Watching? Mocking? Judging? Searching for an inroad…to plant some tares amongst the wheat? Yes, my childhood is incomplete. The taste of cotton candy, sweet, that devil keeps us entertained. Storing question marks in vain. He was there, wasn’t he? I hear him once again…musing misery with my pen…look at this little fool making faces in the sky instead of shadows in the shade. Dogs instead of demons. Birds turn into dragons. Carousels to crashing cars. White chalk lines to shooting stars.

Grandpa agrees with my interpretations, but looking back…he was probably just being nice. Always encouraging…dark glasses, reading, drinking a beer. Watching the waves along Newport Beach. The rain didn’t bother me at all. The gray cold skies…what of them? Back then, summer had a name. A feeling anchored in freedom, safe from harm, no gray malaise. The days melted into each other like ice cream into words. Cacophony of screeching birds. They scare me, then they don’t, then they do. Thoughts are careless, and time waits for retrospect. So we can look back and question everything. Forever asking why? June and July rhyme or once rhymed. Yes, there was a time when they did, sounds of katydids. Staying out all day until Mother calls, “Tommy, time to come home…supper’s on the table. Step inside a moment: TV blaring,
someone singing…no school bells ringing, no notes to keep. No lies behind the wall of sleep…sleep…sleeping.

Red light blinking, caution shifting. Seems like only yesterday. The rain was once my friend as well. But then again, lest we pretend. Retrospect is lost upon a medicated mind. Tales of youth sublime, the subtleties of clouds and skies. The symbiote of corpse and flies, so many gathered round, yes, the first time I saw death. But let’s not go there yet, lest I forget the reason why. Why? Why? A strange and toxic word when hanging in the rearview mirror. Nearer ever nearer answers I could never bear, secrets I could never share, seem to rear their heads. Ceilings suffocating beds, the walls are closing in, you pop the pressure with a pin, a prick inside my arm. Then you say, “How’s that feel? Go on, tell me more…there’s no one here to judge you…this place is safe, this space is safe.”

What the fuck? What is safe? I felt safe with Grandpa…he told me that someday I would be a man. Why tell that to a ten-year-old? A day that came so late it seems…Peter Pan on silver screens; I’m never growing up. An Island by another name is someone that I knew. A summer day we fell into…you fell into…I fell into…a dream (more like drifting, as I recall). The sunshine is a liar…the darkness is an angel.

No need to fear, it won’t be long, leaning on the glass. Waiting for the light to change, it’s strange, so very strange. The intersection rearranges; streets are black as ice…if I think twice or maybe three, I’ll hear that song again. It’s playing on the radio, Spinning Wheel…got to go round. Were you listening? I wonder. Most definitely distracted. Something you were thinking…was it much the same as me? Somewhere else you need to be, not inside the moment…the moment…the moment. Spinning wheel, rain, intersection, blinking red light, caution. Too late! Death is here! Hello, Tommy.

Now I’m spinning, round and round, here I go again. Now you’re flying out the door, angels catch you far too late. No time to say goodbye. Plenty of time to wait…waiting for the whys to end. Question marks like branding irons seared into my brain. An island by another name is someone I became. “Why” is such a deadly word, hanging on a sentence, on the lips of mothers wailing, on the tongues of Father’s sons. Grandfathers as Father figures sleeping in the rain, blood mixed with the water slowly flowing down a drain. Rearview mirrors tell no lies, death appears much closer, life is larger in reverse. “Why” clings to the pages of confessions that I write. Why is loss a mindset? Why is innocence a curse? Why are you not waking up? Sleeping in your gutter bed, you look so peaceful, looking at the cold gray skies above. Your face is wet with wonder; can you see me where you lie?

Why are you so silent? You were never lost for words? Sirens coming closer, church bells ringing, people stare. My head is bleeding on your face; I’m pulling on your shirt. Yesterday was summer, it was such a perfect day. The sun was shining all day long. Perfection in a perfect song. The contrast kills me, still from life to death, from death to life. “Why” becomes a riddle on the sharp end of a knife. “Why,” for years, did follow me with shades of steely doubt. Guilt became my god, fond regrets to figure out. Someone pulls me from your side. I fight to no avail. I never said I love you, but I do and always will. Outside, I hear the sound…it plays a song I used to know. Soundtrack to a place in time. The rain is sometimes so sublime. Did I tell you? It used to be my friend. Sleeping  in the backseat, drifting off into a dream, the truth beyond a lie…the black
behind the bluest sky, the color of the question why.

TM DiSarro
©2026 TM DiSarro/ MindScapes Publishing
From my new book: ILLUMICAT
Available on Amazon