I was here.

The rain reminds me of being homeless. I would scramble or even fight, if necessary, for a dry place to sleep.

The rain reminds me of a time when I was dopesick. It was dark outside, but the dealers were still out of the corner. I tried to make it back to my encampment. I knew I could not. I felt the puke hit the back of my throat when I realized I needed to conduct my dirty business right there. I had a cooker- no water. I pulled my rig out of my back pocket. It was raining outside. I saw the rain pooling on the hood of the car in front of me. It has been raining for awhile- how dirty can it really be? I thought to myself. I used that water. That water almost cost me my leg. I got a raging infection, an infection so rancid that you could smell the rotten tissue from half a block away. If I would not have gotten arrested, maybe I would be one of those people you see panhandling in a wheelchair in the median of any busy street.

The rain reminds me of getting in cars with strangers. Dealers, tricks, new "friends". Waiting outside in front of some business, hoping some civilian doesn't ask me to move along. Wondering if my life has any meaning. Wondering where I will go next.

The rain reminds me of curling up next to friends of boyfriends in parking garages. We would huddle for warmth in there. Two bodies under a trash bag or a blanket. There might be a fleeting kiss. Most of those people are dead now. Most of the people who knew them are also dead. I am the vessel left with the collective memory of those that have passed on. If I didn't write about them, would they even exist. Would I have existed if I died then? Faded pictures in a hallway collecting dust in the sunlight.

When you are gone, and your family is gone, who will remember you? Who will remember any of us? Are we washed away like the filth on the street made clean after a rainy day.Or do we cling to the concrete. We leave little pieces of us saying "I was here". I left that life. I left those streets behind. I have little faces that make me cards saying "we love you mommy". They don't know the person I was back then. They will never understand the pain I felt inside. I don't want them to know. I want them to think than a rainy day means coloring, xbox, or making blanket forts. I want them to know rain brings flowers. When I see the dripping trees, I still remember. I still know I was there.