Spring Rain was her name

 

Spring Rain was her name

To behold her would wash your eyes.
Her child she named Bebop Blue
but we called him Bop.
Spring Rain and child, they lived
in a rusty old van. At school she volunteered
teaching the Great Books to ragamuffins
with a wild passion until the day
she parked the van, middle of the highway,
locked the doors blocking traffic
behind mandala curtains screaming
too much evil—Evil!—in life.
At the sheriff she slashed a knife.

Bop disappeared wherever kids go
until thirty-two years later I’m talking to a guy,
he’s planting roses while I’m installing
outdoor lights. “My name’s Bop,” he says
with a handshake, “I used to live around here.”
Far out! So I ask about Spring Rain.
“Her name’s Jane,” he says and shows me a photo.
Gray hair, a beaming smile. So fresh. Like new.
No anger has Bop. A man at peace,
at low pay digging holes for roses
to please rich people’s noses.
He learned the Great Books.
“She’s a good grandmother to my kids,” he says,
“though we never leave them alone.”
To behold her would wash your eyes.

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in MOON Magazine—thank you editor Leslee Goodman
photo by Gita Derkinte