I think of the beginning of monsoon season, because when that rain arrives, everyone heaves this same kind of collective sigh as we do now.
For us, this is just a welcome break from the summer heatwave.
The arrival of the monsoon rains signal the start of something different entirely.
Rain that pours down without cessation, streets that run like rivers, cars wading through the current like ungainly hippopotamuses, humidity that penetrates every imaginable space, fuzzy, poisonous larvae that seek shelter from the rain inside the house, the fire ants making a thick trail through the bedroom because it’s too wet outside, me sitting on the side-walk, huddled into a ball, crying in the pouring rain because I got an ear infection.
Here, at least, I hear the cry of the seagulls, something that never rode on the monsoon. There’s something comforting in their distant cries because I know that I won’t have to duel any cockroaches in the kitchen, reach around spiders the size of my fist and my heart in my throat to get a plate, beat strange flying bugs to death with a scoop when they harass me in the shower, walk into the kitchen to find my mother-in-law hunting bugs like an angry demon wielding a stove lighter and bug spray can as a makeshift flamethrower, or wake up in the middle of the night because a lizard hunting on the ceiling pissed on me.
There once was a girl that put to sea to find herself. She washed up in a strange land, far away from where she’d begun.
And though I don’t long to face down the challenges I once had to, a strange wistful pride comes back to me, whispering of courage gained and scars earned.
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