Evanesci

The sun came out this week after a full year of rain, my lips puckered, fingers pruned like the skin around old-woman ankles. I wrung my hair of salt and old sea lions, until it was dry and limp, let water spill out my ears until the floor was wet. You came in with the mop and limped about a mess of ocean the water-weak floor groaning, cleaned up a life of liquid. In your yellow bucket the year looked miniature and muddy, not nearly half as deep as it had fell.