It has since been two months since I’ve come back and the ink in the well is too full for my liking.
On my daily walks to my nearby Starbucks (or “Fourbucks” as Tracie calls it), I feel the evenly paved pavement against feet, with my eyes still roaming the ground, a habit from walking Cancun’s pot-holed roads, a gift from every mayor who re-paves roads, in the way that one would when they suddenly find a smudge on their face: quickly and not quite well.
Ever since I was a kid, I have always lived in a California of drought. “Save water!” was the battle cry of every single trip to the bathroom, kitchen sink, garden and lawn.
I learned how to soap dishes before turning on the water, throw closed jars into the toilet tank, elbow the tap open and closed while I washed hands.
And for the first time in years, back to living in Southern California, I find that this land of my birth is also having a first: a bit of rain. Coming from Cancun, rain is not new. I had been subjected to some of the strangest sites I had yet to see during freak storms and completely flooded streets, people who can’t leave stores because the water had gotten so high, others carrying shoes through knee-deep water.
The water floods my thoughts and carries words downstream. And in this strange, wayward yet lovely roller coaster called life, I find that even though my toes are cold and my skin is dry, there is water in a previously dry river bed and there is warmth from the friends of this new land. I wonder fondly over my past but I find strength in my brilliant future.