Punctuation

A Rainy Sunday's Best

I went dancing that afternoon. 

An empty home, puddles of April rain and weeks worth of mud. 

I was dressed in my Sunday best, but my dress barely reached the bottoms of my knees

so none of the horrible could reach the fabric.

I was wearing cute fish-bone tights, because the April temperature was deceiving,

with open-toed black pumps decorated by soles worn too thin, 

and the sides scuffed by hard times and eager souls.

I went dancing that afternoon, 

I treated the puddles as if they were sections of the floor to avoid. 

I treated the gritty sand caking under my toes as a blessing. 

I let the rain frizz my hair, 

I let its color drip through my fingers, 

like blood down a blanched sink bowl. 

I swung my umbrella on its toes, 

striking the ground with its crown.

Tiptoeing around the shoreline where little worms writhed away, yet couldn't resist the temptation to drown. 

And when I was done dancing,

soaked and chilled to my very bone, as deep into the marrow of it all as a person could possibly believe,

I left behind my muddy footprints, little signatures. 

My signatures, the best I could come up with. 

Mess. Mess from making the best out of a rainy day. 

A rainy Sunday. 

A rainy Sunday's best. 

And no one, except for the lingering presence of freshly ground coffee was home to stop me.