My name is Kaamos.

“Who are those people?” he asks.

Those are the ghosts of my past selves, bracing for an impact that never comes.

Just like you, now, are recoiling from the rain as I reach out and let the drops pour over my open palm.

I let the tears wash over my sister’s face, so later peonies can bloom pink across her cheeks and a new life can stream through her veins.

I let her grab my stretched out hand and pull me outside, into the humid air; the garden still sparkling with dewdrops.