Synchronicity

(sĭng'krə-nĭs'ĭ-tē) n. Coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related, conceived in Jungian theory as an explanatory principle on the same order as causality

In what other lives or lands

Have I known your lips

Your Hands

Your Laughter brave

Irreverent.

Those sweet excesses that

I do adore.

What surety is there

That we will meet again,

On other worlds some

Future time undated.

I defy my body's haste.

Without the promise

Of one more sweet encounter

I will not deign to die.

- Maya Angelou

The End

After a month and a half of steady rainfall, I'd convinced myself my mood had the power to manipulate the weather. As it was, I didn't have it within me to control my disposition, and thus the rain pattered on. It was as perpetual and unabated as the melancholy that hung over me, as tangible as the thick, grey clouds that clung to the sky, and there was a part of me that couldn't help but feel bad about the inconvenience I was inadvertently causing the rest of the city.

Los Angeles wasn't made for rain, I'd decided. Somehow, I didn't think I was either. I could remember better days – days of sunlight, freckles dotting my skin, warmth enveloping me like a childhood blanket.

They were all superfluous memories; they did nothing to stop the downpour now.

I was in desperate need of an umbrella – one that could follow me indoors, as it had started raining there as well – but I knew in the back of my mind that it would do no good. Under the protection of such a comforting device, I knew I would only get struck by lightning.

I'd been waiting for such a misfortune to befall me for nearly two months. The rain was an omen aimed specifically at me, and I couldn't help but wonder why it hadn't simply finished me off yet. I'd brainstormed everything I could do to prevent it, stocking my closet with flotation devices and holding my head beneath the bathwater as long as I could for practice. I'd even considered building an ark, had I some place to put it.

None of this would matter, though. I was almost one hundred percent certain I was destined for a watery end, and when the moment finally came, I knew I would be helpless to stop it.

It was a Sunday the day it happened. The driver's license building on the corner of 4th and Cypress was closed for the afternoon, and for the first time since I'd taken a position there two years earlier, I was thankful I'd been given a key. In the very nether regions of my mind, I knew it was silly to be renewing my license on this particular day, shaky and wet as I was.

My photograph turned out horrible, focusing fully on my hollowed cheeks and the dull circles that had steadily begun to overtake my face. My stringy auburn hair clung to my shoulders, and my emerald blouse was soaked through, molding to my body like a second skin.

The image was insignificant, though. My only concern was that it was recognizable, and that the words in red block lettering below the photo were clear and concise. It was the only thing that put me at ease about what I was going to do, and I found it almost amusing that two words, no more than trifling arrangements of vowels and consonants, were enough to forgive me my transgressions. When I looked the finished product over, I almost smiled.

After twenty-four years of self-absorption, I had, on the day of my death, become an organ donor.