The One Hundredth Day

Eva, on your one hundredth day, it rained, and we slept late then walked the slick streets. I felt bad that the color that saturated our weekend had given way to such gray. Some days it rains, I told you. The clouds just get too heavy. When we got home, I burnt the toast and begged you to nap but you wouldn't, so we laid in bed and read poems, and the rain kept falling. Some days, I said, it's Monday and it rains. And then you cried. You were just so very tired and you cried. Some days, it's Monday and it rains and you lay in bed and cry and read poems. And that's okay, I told you. It might even be beautiful.