It’s raining again. The roof is leaking, and I can hear the plink, plunk of water dripping into the bucket I left in the corner of the living room. This drafty old house has never had a roof that did its job. Even when I was little it leaked. The house was full then, and there were people in all the rooms, running down the stairs, working in the kitchen. I didn’t mind the leaks then.

Now I’m alone, the only one left, and the leaks are louder.

The ducks are enjoying all this rain. The fields are sodden, the grass spongy with puddles and little streams. I can hear them quaking from where I sit on the front windowsill. Their wings flap as they splash about, making a ruckus. It’s nice to hear something other than the leak in the roof, the incessant, drip, drip.

I don’t know why I stayed after everyone else left. Or why I kept the farm. I tell the people in town that I’m waiting for something, but I don’t remember what that is anymore.

The rain to stop.

The sun to come out.

This old house to fall down around me.


I’ve been waiting a long time. Years. I don’t know why I stay anymore, unless it’s to watch the rain, listen to the ducks in the barnyard, and hope someday, something will change. Someone will come to fix the roof, maybe.

Or it will fall in, and I’ll have to go somewhere else. That’s as likely as anything else.

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