after-rain

'Fuck.'

She stood up with a start, grey eyes screwing shut, her hands passing over her face in exasperation. Usually she wasn't one to be crude, but the situation was rather unusual. She was going to be late. And wouldn't that be ironic, her inner voice supplied.

Beetles had this way of distracting her, ever since she was little. An unsavoury curiosity in the eyes of many of her peers, not girl-like enough, and had ranked her in the school hierarchy to the lower status of tomboy and weirdo. She did look a bit like a boy, with her tall, lanky limbs, dark clothes and a short black mop of a hair. A pale one, bookish with a rather unhealthy obsession for coleopteras.

Maybe she was rather lost as a girl, but then again, her aunt would sing praises of her Baby Face, pink lips and long lashes, insisting that she would grow to be one fine woman while sporadically pinching and patting her cheek. Except when it came to the bugs of course; no-one seemed to like them.

How could they not, though? They had such fascinating colours, ever-changing metallic hues, like the prettiest of dark pearls (if one was so inclined to look for an excuse for feminine appreciation) but very much more alive.

Well, that was not the case of the poor insect on the windowsill that had held her attention so long and caused her to be – cram it! Most Certainly Late, she thought as she reached out to close the window panes, before remembering and dashing down the stairs to then shoot out of the front door.

Mother always opened the windows after a storm; which then always led to a recurring argument with aunty about hoodlums, thieves and wildbears, as if anyone would ever bother to come this far, much less a bear. That last argument always conjured the picture of a rather comically large grizzly bear trying to squeeze its way in through the kitchen window in a vain attempt to procure some homemade honey. It was way too small, she had stopped trying to slither her way out through this particular window at the age of six. Not that she hadn't found other ways, to the great dismay of mother. But that didn't matter anymore.

After-storms were her favourite times to go outside, like now, the fresh smell of the wet grass, the rich earth soaked and alive between her bare toes, everything awake and bright again, new in the oldest of ways, purifying would say mother. The fact that the aftermath of heavy rain seemed to bring out her favourite crawling creatures only added to her enthusiasm for the weather. When the sun peeked out from the receding clouds, reaching down to the glittering grass, the scattered beetles shone like round, live, buzzing diamonds among beads of crystal-like water. She cared nothing of jewels, but did know that crystals were far more common and not as rare and precious as diamonds.

Maybe she could leave a rare, special beetle behind, as a present. She could hardly afford the fancy piece of rock after all. The beetle she had found on the window sill had seemed rare and unique enough. She had never seen one quite like it before: it was of a metallic grey, but with a plethora of changing shades, each with their own particular reflection; the small dome almost of a swirling liquid, vibrant and alive on its own, much like the fluctuating colours of clouds in a storm, like her own eyes.

As it is, she couldn't do anything now. Plus, having a dead beetle on the kitchen table might prove to be an unpleasant reminder. Speaking of, she was late, again. As she quickened her pace, walking down the familiar dirt road proved to be surprisingly easy.

She still had doubts about her willingness to attend the event, what was the point of hurrying? Nothing would change. If mother finds the grey beetle, she might also think it was one of her forgotten pets. She always was a bit of a clutz. Got her into quite a bit of trouble, being late and not paying attention.

She finally started following the beginning of the old stone wall on her right. In any case, mother didn't like beetles; could after-rain count as a gift? She mused as she turned to the metal gates framing the entrance. As of now she probably loathed cars of similar appellation too. Or myopic drunk drivers not paying attention to twelve year-old girls hurrying to school with a fascinating species of Chrysolinafastuosa in her hand.

She was late; of course she was late. The small, sombre congregation was now exiting from the other end of the yard.

She looked away.

Inside, in the left corner was a mound of freshly turned earth, in front of it a simple white polished stone. A small detail caught her eye and her lips curved into a slight smile.

A small beetle was carved under her name.

Perhaps the after-rain would do after all.