Waiting For My Rapture

Raised eyebrows and whispers rode on her long train as she walked out the church door. Only their eyes followed her. She continued down the street. If anyone were watching they would have seen her remove her shoes, place them neatly on the curb and continue up the hill where she stopped to stand.

She did not see me---startled, unmoving, holding my breath. I crouched down low, leveled my back with the tall grass, let the rock in front of me bear some of my weight. Dry weeds entered my nose and open mouth, but I remained still. As I waited, candle wax dripped, second hands jumped, mothers sang lullabies. The moon watched her and smiled, the stars fought to get a better look.

She freed herself from the shackle of satin ivory, the heavy mass puddled at her feet. The air rose around me fragrant and heavy. Lavender, magnolia, mountain laurel? I couldn’t place it, it wasn’t mine to place. She moved to stand on a jagged boulder, a fang on the side of the cliff. She stood close to the edge, wrapped her toes around its strength, and held her face to the endless night sky. Dark hair fell across her back; skin silvered by the moon's light.
“Are you ready for me?” she asked. Her voice was song.

The moon winked. She closed her eyes, and she was gone.

I’ve grown old now. Over the years I think I’ve seen her face in the yellow-pink shadows of dusk. Sometimes I hear her song in the moments between sleep and waking. I have lived my life mostly forgetting, but sometimes remembering what I saw.

Late last June I climbed that fanged hill. Stood naked upon her rock and squeezed my crooked toes around it. I looked to the sky, held my gaze on the moon.
“Are you ready for me?”
The moon did not wink. I stood, arms reaching, stretching for her light. I was much too far away.