Rainy season

A warm wet breeze in the height of the rainy season blows across my face as I walk along the center of an unilluminated back road with my arms stretched out. It’s an overarchingly rainy and gray weekend, pierced with moments of undeniable clarity in the midst of the night. The moon is smudged into the sky like a golden fingerprint carelessly left by God. The sound of thirsty grass blowing in the wind calls for more showers like a rain stick might. The buzz of power lines tickles the back of my brain. The running water in the gutters gurgles and cools my senses as if they might have overheated. The calling voices of the frogs in the rice paddies reminds me how easily I could be covered in mud.

The damn breaks open. I allow myself to speak out loud. I allow myself to become wise and knowing. I allow myself to be that person who pours a cup of tea for the nth stranger who has just burst into tears on my couch and pats their back. I allow myself to be not only the person who listens, but who offers a firm and guiding hand.


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