by Shawn Allen

In a beautiful white and sky blue sun dress, hair tied neatly in pigtails, the little girl stands at the window watching the rain.
She holds a bunch of balloons by their stings. They pull at her hand, seeking to float away. 
In the parlor downstairs, the remains of a birthday smugly linger. Half-burned candles, pieces of cake and party favors mock the celebration with their joyful colors. Wrapping paper, empty of presents, lie scattered through the room like outgrown fairy-tales. The other children have long since gone, rushing from doorway to vehicle to avoid getting wet.
In the door to the bedroom, her father looks in on her. “This is no way for the day to treat my daughter,” he thinks.
So he puts on his overcoat and, turning up the collar, goes out to have words with the clouds.
At first, the storm pays him no heed. Then, for some reason moved by the father’s pleas, the dark and wet ceiling parts, allowing the sun and many rainbows to take hold of the remaining day. 
And father and daughter play with the brightly colored ball he gave her this day.

from: The Book of Fragments
(c) Shawn D. Allen.

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