Don’t Rain On My Parade

The rotund float of a monkey had just passed us by when we finally saw her: the elaborate white top embellished with golden tassels and the decently flayed skirt, as she marched, whistling and commanding the women behind her forward with her baton.

Daddy laughed, and it was one of the loudest I’ve ever heard him. He fiddled with the flash on his camera (“Daddy, quick she’s gonna be far away!”) before snapping as many shots as he could do in a minute. He grabbed me by the armpits and made me sit on his shoulders so I could see the jiggling bells go along.

And then it started: I was the first to feel it, that tiny splatter of an angel’s tear on my head. Pretty soon, everyone was looking up, and umbrellas of varying colors rushed to open. Daddy hurriedly put me down and hid his camera back in his bag.

“Daddy, what are the girls gonna do?”

I pushed through the crowd to get to the front, and I saw a mess of female limbs, clutching themselves, shivering and wet. Yet, through the forming mists, I saw my sister at the front, shiny whistle on her lips, moving her plump body forward against the rain: The baton the only beacon.

——————-

This is the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.

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