standing in the mist

I awoke this morning with the sky still dark. I wanted to be 8340 miles away from here, in that big bed with the brown sheets and the covers pulled high, lying there awake, waiting in the moments between serenity and chaos. But I am alone in a stone room with a mosquito net binding me in limbo. It is raining today. I inhale slowly, the air has that smell of newly washed vegetation. Sweet, crisp and clear, hanging thick in my lungs with moisture. I stand and face the sky, small droplets gather on the tip of my nose and my hair dampens with a thin layer of mist. This triggers a sudden flow of memories; thunderstorms walking to class in college, kissing my first love in the rain, kayaking with cousins, waterfalls in Costa Rica, floods in Hawaii, winter in Kenya, the oceans spray in Spain, you in the shower. I have never been so fond of these memories. They mold me. I hold them. The air is cold and I pull the stocking cap low over my eyebrows and ears. Rubbing my arms, I shiver. My arms feel like a foreign body these days, larger than before. I am suddenly self-conscious, though there is no one to notice. I walk along the path from home, it plumed with dust yesterday. Now small clumps of mud form at the hem of my skirt rubbing against my ankles, leaving a stain. For a moment it is quiet and the birds chirping are my only song. But as I round the bend a small gaggle of children run to follow, tiny hands covering their broken tooth smiles as they giggle over my presence. Their broken bags flop against their backs as we walk, skirts swaying in the wind, dark skin shiny with the rain. One has deep scars across her face but they seem to disappear when she smiles. I am content walking with them, breathing the same air they breathe, even if it means being 8340 miles away.