Sometime, Forever Ago

July is the rainy season in Puerto Escondido. Warm, muggy, wonderfully unbearable. Every evening before dinner, the clouds roll in from the East in a looming mass of ominous energy. Overhead, the sky opens up without warning, baptizing us in a torrential deluge, turning the sea calm and smooth, like glass in thunderstorm weather. In the cover of night, I run through the muddy streets towards the dim lights in the distance, slipping on every other step despite your efforts to steady my trembling entropy. We sit under the tin roof of the Little Mediterranean Restaurant by the sea, listening to the pattern of raindrops overhead in comfortable silence between bites of Oaxacan cheese and Mexican chorizo. A dog licks my knee and settles at my feet. Inevitably, I get a horrendous cold the next day (you laugh until you get sick too).

Sometime this morning, I woke up to the feeling of calloused fingers gently combing through my hair. When I open my eyes, it’s noon, the paint on the ceiling is white and peeling. There is a cool breeze coming through the doorway and I get a whiff of Spanish cederwood. It’s been a month since I left Mexico. I fall back against my too soft bed and try to pick up the scattered pieces.