Rain and sun.
Samara Seibel

The sun is in the raspberries. The darkest pink and the lightest red form nodules of delicate fruit, with its flesh of blushing water. Pale green vines appear between faded deck boards; growing long, they bear their tartness towards the kitchen. I am on the deck, writing a letter. The weight of the pen leaves a small dent on the side of my middle finger, I pause, at the end of a sentence, and hold up my hand, away from me as though pressing on the placid sky. Each nail is a little mishapen—both round and square—with a spot of blood where the cuticle around the thumb is torn. A few white flecks of some mineral deficiency and the tips stained with beet juice from making salads. Apart from the stains, my hands are so much like my father's: steady and thick-jointed. I told this to my lover as I lay beside him in bed this morning, tapping my fingers on his shoulder. He said they felt like dry rain.

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