The leftover raindrops, flowing from the leaves, poured like the life blood of an angel, glowing in the moon light. I watched it as I waited in shadow of the tree. It looked like a holy white light compared to the sick, dark, red ink that had poured from the hole in the mothers side. The same ink that now stained my hands. I reach out to holy light and watch the fluorescent water mix with the ink on my hands, forming a rust that seems to stay on my finger. Which fits, as I don’t think my hands would ever be fully clean.