Contrast

It's raining. No savage storm this, but a gentle falling of water from clouds pierced by the late afternoon sun. It gilds the world in in soft golds, warm oranges and delicate pinks. It is the kind of early autumn day where childhood is not so very long ago and adults laugh as easily as the small children do, stomping gleefully together through puddles in the rain.

She walks barefoot, long red dress trailing in the water, creating ripples and eddies as she passes by. Her strides are slow, meandering and with an easy kind of grace. Her umbrella rests against her shoulder, the silvery metal cool against her skin. The fingers of her left hand hang artlessly by her side, relaxed. Occasionally she reaches out to catch a raindrop or two, to savor the feeling of the warm droplets tapping against her palm.

A group of women walk ahead of her. They are far enough that the falling rain has softened the edges of their outlines. Umbrellas catch the broken sunlight along their metal tines and bounce it back out into the ambient water, creating brief rainbows on the walls of the buildings that line the streets.  The rainbows dance as the women chatter and laugh, jostling their umbrellas against each other. The red clad lady smiles to hear their laughter. She enjoys the chance to witness their friendship, strangers though they are to her.

Though she enjoys the sight of such camaraderie, she is content in her solitude. Her life abounds with social events, tea times and meetings, play dates and parties. The dress she wears is not uncommon fare for her wardrobe and she doesn't mind if the delicate cascade of crimson chiffon gets water stained today. In the humid beauty of the rain-washed street she finds peace. In the feeling of rough, wet pavement against her feet she finds strength. In the sharing this moment with a street full of strangers she finds a sense of community. In no hurry to get to her destination, she wanders through the rain.

A thunderous noise crashes against my ears, breaking the slowly unfolding ponderings of my imagination. I drop my gaze from the painting and a cacophony of sound returns to my awareness. Rumbling drums roar an ominous cry of power through a room seemingly too small to hold it. Tearing chords scream from the amplifier. The sound reverberates over my nerve endings causing me to shiver in response. A solid base line crawls into my bone marrow, echoes in my heartbeat.

The last remnants of my quiet musings dissolve as the wailing cry of an adamantine voice rings out above the din in a defiant chorus. The words are the war cry of an angry soul done with giving way. “They will not force us!” they are simple words given power by their singer. His posture, tendons standing ridged along his shoulders, fingers strangling the base of the microphone stand, embraces those words as he rips them from his throat and throws them, assailing the impassive walls with each line. I wouldn’t need words to understand the intent of this music, with the brash conversation of discordant notes between bass guitar and electric all vying with the thundering drums that attempt to devour them both and above it all the deep chested anthem the shatters the air. 

As the music crescendos, tsunami-like waves beating against my skin, the painting of the red-clad woman catches my gaze. A haunting, oddly painful, sense of peace rises up my spine, envelopes my lungs, chokes me as the beat of my heart continues to thrum in time with the pied-piper rhythm of the snare drum. For a moment the dissonance of the two conflicting feelings steals my breath, closes my throat. Tears spring to my eyes. I close my eyes, rub at them with my fingertips, cold skin against flushed lids, but my mind’s eye holds an afterimage of the picture. The silent, internal war scatters my thoughts till I think they must just shatter and fall, leaving me empty, but I receive a sudden reprieve as the guitarist stumbles and the music clatters to a halt.

Good natured ribbing ensues amongst the musicians. The other spectator in the room smiles at me briefly, a shared moment of “aren’t they silly?” I run fingers, slightly trembling through my hair and collect myself. I look at the picture once again. Whatever temporary muse had caught me is gone and though it still is a pretty picture, it holds no power now. I shake the lingering spell from me with a toss of my head and return my attention to the room as the musicians pick their next song and start up again.