Puddle (of Mudd?)

Into the puddle I looked, and saw my reflection staring back at me. Above, the skies were overcast; I could not tell if it indicated an impending storm or - judging by the ripples in the puddle - if one had just passed.

I watched the ripples closely. There must have been three raindrops which had fallen a second earlier. Their perfect arcs pulsed in outward motion. Overlapping, colliding softly. It would be much later that I understood the significance of that number, and what the clashing ripples meant.

I could only stare as the ripples weakened and died. In the ensuing calmness, I was able to see the sixteen winters I had lived. Hmm. I stood there, in quiet introspection.

Suddenly, my doppelganger disappeared into a blur; as two drops of rain fell lightly upon the puddle. One after the other, until the last of the ripples had become one with the body of water.

Just as I was about to look away, two more fell. I could not tear my gaze away. The reflection blurred once more, its visage distorted beyond recognition by the little earthquakes on the crystalline surface.

The last drop was the most beautiful of all. Its ripples coursed lightly like a feather across the puddle, barely disturbing the image. The most beautiful, for I recognized it: a teardrop from the soul.