Patterns

A storm rips through the night with cascades of downpour and lightning
    not seen in many long years.
Rage. Sorrow. Relief. Objection. Acceptance. Release
    at last.
Release at last.
Washing away memory itself, if for a few blessed moments.
It is as if the sky acknowledges the ordeal of our dear friend, 
passed away mere hours ago after so many harrowing days and months.
Let there be mourning and then let there be life again, it seems to say.

We see patterns because we need to: 
nature does not make meaning for us,
god does not make meaning for us,
nor love, nor these lost words.
We make meaning
and give names to it.

Maybe rain always speaks my language because I need it to.

I am told that he spoke of love love love love as his refrain,
as he struggled to find his meaning among the shrinking boundaries of his mind,
which made no more sense to him than the vast universe does to us.
There is perhaps grace that he found her
patiently looking back at him at the center of his receding story.

Our precious moments that are remembered by choice
and imprinted upon an ephemeral rain 
by the will of a glad mind
is as lasting a memorial as any of us will get.
And, perhaps, if we have lived right,
our abrupt passage through this world
will leave behind brighter lives
that, rather than mourn our burdensome exit, 
celebrate the beauty we created.

Melih Sener