"Would it feel my touch ?", i thought while pressing my palm against the coarse bark of the tree under which we took shelter from the rain that night. It felt so dry and wrinkled with age...I don't remember what we were talking about ; two human beings have so much to share while waiting for the rain to stop.
How does it feel, i wondered, to be in the place of this poor, wrinkled creature in such a cold night, forgotten in a secluded corner where no one looks ,shivering in the cold, drenched in the rain, alone.
Yet it warmly embraced the two of us, as though it was happy to have the consolation of a company at last.
There are moments you would like to carve into your memory forever, and this was one of these moments. I feel livelier than ever when it rains. I'm the happiest when the rain drops land on my face and slide along my temples, because it reminds me that i'm still loved by God, and is still included in his mercy. if you could imagine, dear batushka, a torch burning even more zealously when it is showered by a heavenly hail, that is exactly what happens to my soul when it rains.
It wasn't November yet, but my soul was wide awake and could hear the feeble sounds usually smothered by the mighty noise of the living. I could hear the loneliness of this dying creature. It seemed that none of this blissful shower could seep through to enliven the poor thing amid its seclusion. It was dying slowly, horridly unnoticed.
I pressed my palm against its bark because i wanted to remember the miniature humps and dips engraved on it. I pressed my palm against its bark, and closed my eyes, hoping that i can convey a bit of the warmth i felt that night, standing next to a dear friend, talking about everything, talking about nothing, i wished to transfer this warmth somehow to its mortified core, hoping that it might revive it a little.
