As he merged into the heavy Chicago traffic, his cell phone rang.

Margaret said a silent prayer for him; his gaze fell upon the rose on the dash. He climbed, dripping, into the driver’s seat.

“I’m leaving,” he said with a sigh, and lumbered toward the Land Rover. Margaret watch Merwin stand and wipe the mud from his overcoat.

The tree that stretched above him, gnarled and cold, did little to keep him dry. Heavy raindrops coursed through the air above Merwin and bluntly spattered onto his soggy hair.

“Please, just leave me alone.” He trembled as a chill crept up his spine. “That would be poetic, wouldn’t it? Maybe I should.”

“You’ll catch your death out here!”

“I love the rain,” he whispered. “The rain.”

She was standing with arms crossed like the mother he never had. “Merwin, come inside!” pleaded Margaret from the doorway.

A day to drown in a cloudburst of Sunday’s tears, and maybe, just maybe, be swept away to a new beginning and a sunrise all alone. A day to mourn. It was Thursday, four days past.