It rained last night. And a good part of yesterday. I like rain. It puts me at ease.

I was outside around 3am basking in the frigid wet chill. I smelled a memory. Rosemary. So sweet so fragrant, rooted in better times, before the end, before the beginning, when the breeze never stopped and the wind never blew, the eternal dusk that flirted with twilight that never matured into night. I believed in all hopes then; others still had hopes for me.

Even cut and dried, rosemary still carries its scent, unaging, unbothered by the sun or the wind, unlike everything it touches. Rosemary never knows when it rains.