First measurable rain we've had in months and months.
Not a lot. Enough to bring out the petrichor and dust off the roses.
Enough to put me in the mood for Dead South and slow blues.
What happened to the woman I used to be? Who'd cross the street to find a patch of sun to walk through; who spent every winter dreaming of hot sand in the sun? She's gone, killed by the heat dome, lost in images of continent-sized fires. Who I am now is the girl who grew up where villages prayed for rain and we fought over the shady spots under the big mango tree in the schoolyard. Who I am now is the teenager who was shocked by the extravagant waste of water in the downtown fountains.
Who I am now is all of us in the burning world.
Books Available
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside
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