They called her a rain dancer;
when she prayed, it snowed.
The skies collapsed in on themselves to obey
and the palms of the northern wind
cupped tightly around her words
and soared in haste to rush her prayers heavenward.
They called her a lightning rod
with the spark to ignite the love of God
and thrust open the windows of heaven.
Crisp white snow followed her every prayer,
her every holy footprint,
but she tread just two steps behind me.
Or maybe, I was two steps behind her.
They called her a telephone
with God on speed dial and the snow on short order.
When she bowed her head,
the school children would gather in exhilaration
to watch the little blonde rain dancer call for the snow.
My mother called her a miracle.
My friends called her a god.
But I called for her to stop,
just for a moment,
so that my faltering prayers could break
the cloud barrier, too.
Only once, I plucked up the courage to join their circle.
When her sweet soprano voice began to sing the song of heaven,
I prayed too. Silently. Cautiously. Anxiously.
I echoed her words in my mind,
I latched my splinters to her forests,
my mites to her mountains,
and cried out with all of my might.
In this moment,
when our prayers seemed to shatter the veil
and the snow began to flake in the clouds,
nobody could prove that I couldn’t sing.
Not even I.
