Ellie

oh, to be

In the gentle sway of youth, raindrops insisted upon the car window, birthing "Go, Ellie, Go!” Bound by borders of our own weaving along worn leather seams, my sisters and I each chose a solitary raindrop to champion. We called each drop Ellie, a name that appeared like things do—falling from the skies.

Rooted by the soft hum of forgotten melodies, the game began. It was a familiar dance, tethered to the outside world yet immune to its restless sigh. Rapt, we cheered their journey across the glass, driven by forces we could not tame. We chanted "Go, Ellie, Go!" with voices that sometimes drew the gaze of the driver, our father. Those three words became our anthem, an attempt to seize the spirit of existence.

Each raindrop, an ephemeral protagonist, etched its story on the pane, tumbling with a path as unpredictable as the trajectories of our own futures. Like fragments of the divine proportion, Ellie weaved patterns that teased at truths just beyond our grasp.

Blanketed in laughter, we celebrated Ellie’s immutable triumph. Oh, to be Ellie.