Forbes was more astonished than any of them. With trembling hands he took the paper
plate and glanced wild-eyed to the grandmother and the mother and the boy, to the father and
to the people. What tremendous hatred had just a moment ago been focused on banishing him
from their community permanently, had now swayed to the other side and was gaining
momentum. What he thought he had meant for destruction became, unintentionally, the
platform for something good. It smelled like rain.
And then gradually, as if summoned out of a long, distant nap, an armada of clouds
moved over the park. They were big clouds, with muscle and texture and real thought, the kind
that meant truth — clouds that knew your secrets and still rumbled anywhere they wanted
following any and every succulent wish until it was the right time to make them real, those
perfect moments to drench the dreamers hard.
As the boy handed Forbes his bear and green tent, a thunderclap jolted the community.
While the others rocked back and forth, singing out into the greatly marled and dark and
imminent sky, Forbes buried into the tent all his fear, his hatred, his insecurity and loss, his
jealousy and maliciousness, his harsh words and the pain, the slow, agonizing torture of a man
who had lost his hope. Raindrops smacked the picnic table, lifted the powdery earth.
Forbes breathed in the fragrance of the rain. The strange freedom of the air in his body
made his spine tingle. It was as if a white cloud had descended upon him and drew out the
poison in his blood, the poison in his bones and in his skin and mind. His eyes became soft
again — like they had in the old years when the rain came every day. His tongue softened. His
jaw loosened and began to work through the old words, the generous words, the words of
kindness and beauty.
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