Each year I impatiently await the rainy season to return

Each thunderstorm I watch through my window brings me closer to my grandmother who loved watching the dancing bolts of light being chased by monstrous rumbles

She passed in the spring, right at the beginning of our rainy season

The warm rain is a religious experience meant for bare feet on pavement, in the mud, wherever you can dance around giggling with someone you hold close to you

You can feel it approaching in the air

Watching the clouds swell and darken

I’m from the boondocks, we spend a lot of time outside listening to our parents yelling warnings about the mosquitoes and Lyme disease from those damn ticks

They would only worry once they could tell the lightning was a mile away and we would be dragged inside with our hair wet, heavy, and sticking to our faces from the humidity

Our old trick was counting between the roar of thunder and the flash of lightning to tell when it was time

No matter how far from home I go, I will always remember the feeling of mud squishing between my toes

Hunting for frogs in the marshes knowing after the storm was the best time

Listening to their chorus after a storm as they taunted us while we lay in bed

Rainy season is the only season to be excited about here between the trees


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