It’s Raining My Clothes Are Getting Wet – A Short Monologue I always wear these shoes to places I haven’t been. They squeak me into alleyways and roll me over desert sand. I trust these shoes, these shoes on my feet, to bring me wherever they choose. And where am I going next, I ask them? Which person will I encounter? What bird? Which tree?
I put these shoes on this morning at 6 am. I took the bus deep into the forest. In the forest, I encountered an old black woman, clad in the skins of fruit, singing a traditional African song. Pausing from her song, she said, if I listen closely, in my heart (and when she said “in my heart” she pounded her chest with her fist) I would understand every word she sang. So I listened very carefully, cupping my ear with my hand like a seashell, curling my toes inside my traveling shoes. I listened to her sing and watched her pierce the sun with wide eyes.
Chapha, chapha, chapha
Suddenly, she disappeared, leaving me singing the remainder of the song on my own, in rain that fell from a cloudless sky.