At the Pawn Shop

Clouds roll in to bruise the sky as rain falls from the sun's black eye. My clothes are sodden within seconds - I dive for the first door that beckons. The pawn shop smells of age and dust, a heady mix of past and must. Then, from the door, my tired eyes spy a sight that makes my mouth go dry. I drip across the wooden floor until I reach the open drawer sealed with glass to keep away the specks of dirt that might decay the pair of earrings on display in polished gold with subtle spray of opalescent stones that dot a tiny pair of celtic knots. My mind drifts to faint memories of Nana's fine accessories. My stunned heart gives a painful squeeze; I know she owned a pair like these. Through sudden tears, my vision blurs - I reach into my open purse for bills to pay the waiting clerk, who stands nearby on high alert. I clutch the box with shaking hands; my eyes drop tears that fall to fan across my cheeks in joyful stains - and once outside, I thank the rain. For Susan's "at the pawn shop" contest