Lightning Strikes (Hudson 2)

"No," I said. Standing in her garden amidst so many natural and beautiful things, I felt deceitful and ugly. "But I really appreciated the invitation." "You don't have much family, do you?"

"No. I have a brother who's in the army, stationed in Germany. He might come to see me."

"A brother? Does he live with your

grandmother too?" she asked.

"No. Only I do. Now," I added. I smiled at her. "It's not a very happy story. I'd prefer to leave it for another time. I'm having such a good time today."

"Oh. Of course," she said. "I understand and I'm happy you're enjoying the day with us. You're a very pretty girl, Rain, and I just love your name. For me, a gardener, rain is very important. It's refreshing. It cleans and stimulates growth. I'm sure your name fits you well," she added.

"Thank you."

She laughed and put her arm around my shoulders to give me a quick hug.

When we returned to the patio, I reminded her I'd like to hear one of her poems and she brought out the most recent publication, which made William happy because it was the one entitled "The Clown." She sat and we all gathered around her at the table. My father beamed with pride.

She began, her voice soft, melodic.

He thinks the whole world is a circus

and God is the great Ring Master.

Chosen to bring smiles and laughter, the clown pretends to stumble and fall. He bumps into lampposts and trash cans. He turns himself upside down

and crosses streets on his hands.

He makes sick children and frightened mothers forget.

He dances away depression and sadness

and turns gray skies blue.

He spends his days this way

and people passing toss him a coin or two.

When night falls he crawls back into his box,

a homeless jester born under a tent, content,

his stomach full of laughter and smiles.

Safely asleep, he dreams about tomorrow's show,

hearing the voices in the crowd chanting,

The clown, the clown, give us the clown.

As long as they want him, he'll never be alone.

"Look," William said, pointing at me. "She's crying."

"That's not polite, son," my father told him.

"It's a beautiful poem," I told Leanna, and she thanked me.

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