Rain

The rain of Taiwan isn't like the rain of Indiana. When it begins it smells so sweet and the air gets sickly sticky with humidity. The dark clouds roll in and dump out their troubles onto the earth and then leave tired, as if exhausted from a good cry. Leaving behind a dirty, wet smell and a heat that threatens to drown whoever might be walking in it. Here there is no smell before it rains, and the humidity doesn’t precede the dark clouds. Instead the rain is isolated. Alone in its feel, smell, look. When the sun comes up the air dries and the pavement turns back to a dull grey. In Taiwan everything is connected, the rain is felt before it begins, the storm is sensed even after it has left. In Indiana the rain startles, and when it ends it is almost as if it never happened.

“Maybe I was made this way,

To think and to reason and to question and to pray,

And I have never prayed a lot,

But maybe there’s a loving God.”

Written on Receipts

For lunch we had muffins. Big fat ones filled with blueberries and bananas and oatmeal. We argued over which was healthier bananas and oatmeal or the blueberries, deciding in the end that our raspberry, lemon teas were probably the least healthy of all. I remember your big sunglasses and deeply red lipstick, and wishing I was even close to as brave as you. Later, we walked down to an antique store where you filled your arms with anything that had owls on it. You always knew what you wanted. Sometimes I wonder if you remember that day. If I had your number I’d call and ask. I’d call and say, “I looked it up, mine was healthier.” And hopefully you’d laugh.

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