The Blue in the Rain
The Thing I’ve Never Said Out Loud
I was born as Ohseannah. That’s the name they gave me, the first sound that defined me. I came into this world with my umbilical cord wrapped tight around my throat—blue, gasping for air. Before my first cry, I was already fighting for breath.
Sometimes I wonder if that first breathless moment etched itself into me. If my soul remembers fear as its first language. If I’ve spent my life recreating that scene—tight spaces, suffocated dreams, pulling the rope around my own neck again and again just to prove I could loosen it.
I’ve lived like a shadow, an alien wrapped in soft, breakable skin, watching myself move through the world like someone else’s story. I’ve shrunk to fit the mold, crushed into silence, obedience, a version of me others could tolerate. I squeezed until I couldn’t breathe. Until I disappeared inside myself.
The fear is gone now.
But so am I.
And this—this is what I’ve carried. Silently. Steadily.
I carry emptiness. I carry lost potential—entire galaxies of it, never born.
I carry her.
Rain.
I don’t speak of her.
But I feel her, echoing in the hollow spaces inside me.
I’ve told myself she’s nothing, just a phantom voice, a figment. A ghost.
But truth cannot be silenced.
Letter to Ohseannah from Rain
You think I’m a ghost. A voice haunting you from within.
But I’m not.
I’m not your past.
I’m not your mistake.
I’m the part of you that never stopped breathing.
The one you buried to survive.
Hush the noise.
Really listen.
You’ve lived as two for so long,
you’ve forgotten there was ever a whole.
One half obeyed.
The other waited.
You’ve built your prison well—walls thick with silence and steel.
The door is guarded. Not by locks. But by fear.
By the truth you swallowed whole,
and the masks you wore too long.
You’re tired.
Your bones ache.
You still have nails.
Use them.
Claw at the walls until your fingers bleed.
Heal.
Then do it again.
And when a crack opens—the first bloodied, hairline break—look through it.
There’s sky.
Blue.
Not a memory.
Not a dream.
Real.
Waiting for you.
Waiting for me.
Waiting for us.
The Moment She Became the Warrior
Do you remember the Warrior of Light?
Of course you do.
But let me remind you.
There was a girl.
She had long, thick waves of red-brown hair—like autumn fire lit from within.
Her eyes were warm, almond-shaped, shimmering with sadness and strength.
They called her Snow White.
They called her Pretty Woman.
They called her Pina, always humming Pino Daniele’s songs.
They called her Poet, because her words made the world ache.
Her father called her a whore.
Her husband called her a cheater.
She had only ever given herself to love.
She let them call her what they needed.
She became what kept them comfortable.
She was once the girl of many names.
One October afternoon,
in the quiet of her dorm room,
she lay on her back, head hanging off the side of the bed.
She picked up a book—Warrior of the Light by Paulo Coelho.
She examined the cover.
Shades of blue folding into each other, sky melting into sea.
A boat adrift: three figures fading into shadows.
It was smooth to the touch. Almost wet.
As if the water had soaked into the paper.
She ran her fingers down the spine.
Flipped through the pages, slowly, then all at once.
The sound it made was a kind of music,
and the scent—sweeter than most books—ink and sugar trees.
And then she read.
She finished it in an hour. Faster than she expected.
An hour that stretched across a lifetime.
The words slipped inside her,
quietly rearranging parts of herself.
Each line erasing a name that didn’t belong.
Each page offering what she hadn’t dared to ask for.
When she closed the book, her hands were trembling.
Something had shifted.
She was no longer the girl of many names.
She had chosen something different.
The blue of the cover stayed with her.
It settled into her, something deeper and lasting.
It became the color of Rain,
the color of promise and new life.
She would leave the old world behind.
And for the first time,
she imagined a future she could claim.
One where no one else would name her.
One where her voice would shape the story.
And in that quiet, fated moment,
she stepped into the light—carrying the blue with her.
The Moment She Forgot
The Warrior of the Blue Light packed her bags and bought a one-way ticket to the U.S.
She carried $500, dignity in her chest, and her pockets lined with dreams.
She left everything behind.
She landed in Union, New Jersey, and rented a modest apartment on Caldwell Avenue.
Two bedrooms—shared with a roommate named Jackie.
The house was old: beige wallpaper peeling at the edges, linoleum floors dulled by years of wear.
Her bedroom held garage-sale furniture: a wobbly dresser and a twin bed with a sagging mattress.
In the closet: a few pieces of clothing, two pairs of shoes, and more empty space than she’d ever had before.
She had traded her freedom for her belongings—his final attempt to keep her tethered.
With him, the bed was hand-hammered metal. The kitchen, cherrywood and veined granite.
She walked barefoot across imported rugs and sank into leather sofas.
Her closet overflowed with cashmere, heels, and designer names.
The house was painted in colors that mimicked joy, but the air was thin—carefully controlled.
Her oxygen came in little white pills stamped with Xanax.
Now, in her quiet sanctuary on Caldwell Avenue, the world had turned beige and bare—the color of boredom.
But the air was rich. Unfiltered. Real.
The pills—once stashed in the top drawer—were forgotten.
Like the panic of the past that used to follow her from room to room.
One afternoon, Jackie brought a friend to the apartment.
He arrived dressed as a clown—oversized shoes, a red nose, a crooked hat, white paint on his face.
It was all ridiculous.
But none of it could distract from his sea-green eyes—curious, flirtatious, and completely alive.
She thought he was strange.
But she fell for him slowly, like soup simmering on a cold winter night.
Their days were filled with dancing in the rain and endless conversations about the shape of time, the layers of the universe.
They read Bukowski to each other, passing poems like secrets.
Their nights were filled with passion and whispered games of wax and silk.
Their love was a road trip to the sea—windows down, music loud, salt on their skin, sand on the pedals.
The Warrior of the Blue Light had met her match.
Her angels became his, but so did her demons.
They moved in before Christmas.
No money for gifts, just a small tree strung with lights and handmade wooden ornaments from his grandmother, Mamoon.
He knelt beneath it—its glow painting his face in gold—and read her a letter.
The most beautiful words she’d ever heard.
His voice trembled. His eyes shone.
His heart was wide open.
It was the life she’d always dreamed of.
Simple. Luminous.
She loved her Red so deeply, it frightened her.
Not because what they had was wrong,
but because it was everything.
The kind of love you think you don’t deserve.
The kind you’re certain you’ll lose.
At first, that fear hid beneath the bed like a childhood monster.
But over time, it crept out,
and killed what they had.
Their love had been vast and powerful, like a dragon.
But even dragons can be slain with the right kind of blade.
Her career rose—from Senior Editor to Unix Administrator—climbing in a field long claimed by men.
But her heart never forgot Red.
Still, the sky slowly turned blue again.
She healed. Her light grew strong once more.
But light attracts darkness.
And Blackbird was the storm that dimmed her skies.
He was charm and danger. She fell for him.
But he loved the bottle and the powder more than he could ever love a person.
His kisses turned into bruises.
His rage echoed with terrifying familiarity, like the voice that once haunted her childhood home.
Still, she stayed.
Still, she hoped.
She became pregnant.
He told her to end it.
“I should put you both in a tree,” he said.
But she loved the life growing inside her.
More than her fear.
More than her pain.
The Warrior of the Blue Light gave birth to a son.
She named him Matthias—a gift from the divine.
Blackbird screamed over his crib.
Smashed glass into his bin.
She saw it then—
This man would not stop.
Not for her.
Not even for the child.
So she left.
Tired.
Shattered.
But strong.
She raised her son alone, working long days and longer nights.
And then, one day, she met Rowan.
He didn’t just fall in love with her—he fell in love with her baby boy.
That was when the Warrior of the Blue Light made a vow:
I will never love another man again.
My heart belongs to my child now.
He needs a father.
And I will give him one.
She married Rowan.
And soon after, she had a baby girl—Zara.
She gave all her blue light to her children.
And in time, they both became Warriors of the Blue Light.
And she—
She became the woman of many names, once more.
The Moment She Remembered
It wasn’t loud.
No divine trumpet.
No blaze of prophecy.
Just an ordinary Tuesday.
The sun had barely risen.
She stood barefoot in the kitchen,
wrapped in an old cardigan,
a chipped mug warming her palms.
The smell of coffee lingered in the quiet.
Laundry tumbling in the background.
The hush of a house still half-asleep.
And then—
her daughter’s laughter from the other room.
That soft, unguarded kind children make
when they’re still tangled in dreams.
She didn’t cry.
Not yet.
But something stirred.
A recognition.
A memory of blue skin, blue books, and blue sky.
She was still here.
The Warrior of the Blue Light.
Not in armor.
Not on fire.
But in the woman holding the mug with both hands.
In the hands that held babies
and buried pain.
In the spine that had bent
but never broken.
In the tired eyes
still searching the sky for color.
She took a breath.
And for the first time in years,
she didn’t shrink.
She had carried the blue light.
She passed it on to her children.
But she found a new blue,
as she danced in the rain.
The Blue Current
I am not my pain.
I am not my past.
I am the one who watched, who endured, who waited.
I am the one who returned.
I have sat in silence with ghosts,
let the darkness breathe into my lungs
until it no longer frightened me.
Now, it knows my name.
I don’t believe in false hope—
in empty promises wrapped in light.
I believe in vision, in action,
in the sacred work of showing up real.
I have felt the wave pull me under.
I no longer thrash.
I descend.
I listen.
I rise when I’m ready—
and the air I take in now is mine.
Earned. Sacred. Whole.
I am a mother—not just in name,
but in soul.
To my children. To the wounded.
To the unseen parts of others waiting to be remembered.
I serve not through sacrifice,
but through presence.
Through love that holds no leash.
Through voice that no longer shakes.
Don’t fear the darkness.
Embrace it.
Breathe it in.
Feel it.
It is not your enemy.
It is your teacher.
You are not here to choose light over dark—
You are here to remember:
you are both.
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