It’s monsoon season again.
I always find it hard to really describe what a monsoon
means to me. I think there’s a special
feeling for these violent rainstorms that desert dwellers have. What it does - the destructive erosion and
crazy winds and everything – that’s easy to describe, or show to people. But what all that rain means is something
else. How it feels, what it IS.
It starts like this: The morning is warm, and the temperature
rises like it does in the summer. You
know that by noon it’ll be at least 100 degrees. You’re sweating a lot – but unlike a week
ago, that sweat isn’t going anywhere but into your eyes. Evaporation?
Forget it. It’s muggy and hot - and
if you’re like me, and you don’t have Air Conditioning, just swamp cooling – it’s
just going to get worse. The sky is
getting a little darker out, and the wind picks up a little, but it’s just
terribly hot breezes that won’t help you cool off. All you can think about is how you kind of
miss the winter now. Then you hear it,
in the late afternoon or early evening. A
rumble in the distance.
Oh thank GOD, it’s going to rain.
And then it does.
Suddenly. Huge drops of rain
start pelting down, tearing leaves off trees with the force. The road turns into a river, the gutters
overflow because they’re hilariously overwhelmed with water, and everyone - EVERYTHING
- in the desert seems to breathe a huge sigh of relief.
The air smells like ozone and dust and creosote. The sky is dancing with lightning. Then it passes, as fast as it came, and the
desert comes alive as everything takes in the gift of water.
It happened like this the other day. I was reading my textbook, and sweating all
over, thinking I might just throw an icepack on my head, and forget about
textbooks. It had been thundering all
afternoon – enough to keep dog from going out, since he’s terribly afraid of the
thunder - but nothing had been forthcoming.
Then suddenly it was pounding rain on the roof, drowning out the music I
had on.
So I went to sit on the porch.
A lot of people go out to watch the storms. The neighbors’ children could be heard just across
the street, exclaiming about the rain and the lightning. I’m sticking my feet out in the rain, and
getting wet for the fun of it. It feels
cool and inviting. There’s relief in
monsoon rain. The pressure and the
humidity disappear.
I tried to remember if it had been like this last year. Most monsoons are similar, and there’s always
at least one storm that’s crazy. I’ve
seen them my entire life, but…
I honestly can’t remember a storm from last year. There’s a hole there.
Like a lot of things in 2011, my memories of normal, everyday things are missing.
Papa died in May.
Nana followed him in August.
And I can’t remember anything else from last summer. Just that, just them. Just Papa’s face as he
drifted further and further from the living, barely talking to anyone. How he looked just before he died. Sitting next to Nana for what wound up being
the last time, watching an old movie with her while she fell asleep again. Listening to her apologize for dying. “I’m sorry,” she’d said in a very lucid
moment. “But I’m dying.” And I didn’t
know what to say to her because I didn’t want her to go, but I knew she wanted
to, and that she needed to, so I try to tell her it’s okay without crying, but
my voice is cracking and I’m stumbling over the words. Did it rain that day? I doubt it, but I honestly can’t remember, since
I watched so many rainstorms from that same bedroom window. Maybe I’m just hoping it rained.
Sometimes I feel like monsoon. I feel like I’m waiting for something to
happen, like things have been rumbling, but there’s nothing to show for it. There
are heavy clouds that have built up on the horizon, and they keep promising and
promising, but nothing happens. I’m
stuck in a limbo, where everything’s oppressive and stifling. I feel like I’m watching it from a distance. Come on, just RAIN. Just get it over with, wash out everything, and
leave me with a sense of relief.
I’m always praying for
rain.
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