This is sick mothers and angry brothers – this is Popuri with her hands caught up in the air while the rain is falling because if everyone thinks she's still a child, she's going to act like one. Dancing in the rain isn't something adults do, too full of worry and regret, but she's out past her bedtime getting her dress soaked and her hair matted.
It makes her think of being nine years old. The smell of chicken feed and fresh flowers in the kitchen as she waited, bouncing impatiently while Rick made a fuss over the bad weather. Her father tried to cajole him, ever an uncanny mix of patient and frustrated, "It's just a little bit of rain – no, don't worry, there won't be any thunderstorms." Her mother, a shade too slim even then, had pulled an umbrella from behind the coat rack and pushed it gently into her hands. "But why?" she whined. "It's barely even raining."
Her mother brushed a pale hand against her cheek. "You'll catch a cold if you get wet. we do all we can to keep you well."
The irony of such memories is not lost on her, even as she tries her best to parade them to the back of her mind and keep them there. This is easier, this child-like existence where everything can be reduced to fairy tales, harmless flirting and lullabies. She starts to sing.
In the house, her mother coughs again and Rick wrings his hands angrily – waiting for Popuri to come back, waiting for Kai to show up as the culprit, waiting for something to happen. Wanting not to be left alone.
This is guilt stretched like dirty candy-wrappers over her eyes as she finishes a childhood tune: ashes, ashes, we all fall down.