Il pleut des cordes

by amy sharp


I'm sad like rain. For a little bit, a million years ago, I had a French friend and I would make her say Il pleut des cordes to me when I was sad or very drunk. It sounded like music and I would ask her to say it into my ear. She thought I was wild and would click her tongue at me, but she held my hair when I was sick and handed me Gauloises cigarettes to smoke as I sat with my knees to my chest. I don't know her anymore but I think about her placid face sometimes, how she was comfortable with her own body and how she did not get sad. 
The rain comes for all of us. It has to, even for middle aged French women somewhere. Right?
It pours down like cords.
It drowns us all.