The body it reminds you

Sister leans over, says I smell rain.

As soon as it’s said, there it is, the dirt-metal scent.  God California, so full of wimps, at least west of the 5.  Everyone complaining about the heat.  It is only 85, there is a breeze coming up under the trees which happens when you live beside the sea.

But then the wind brings the smell of rain and I feel my body rise.  An ache, I crave.  It’s not that I mind the heat. I actually love the slow thick drama of Maryland mug.  It’s that it’s hard for the body to remember suddenly, to reach out in cellular grappling for what it expects.

And how what you expect gets all messy and confused with thinking about what you want.

In Southern California rain doesn’t come to break the heat.

The heat lightening doesn’t light up purple yellow netting behind the clouds.  When the sea breeze blows it doesn’t smell like Old Bay.  The coasts don’t dock fishermen boats.

I go out to the front lawn to watch the sun go down.  The grass is so crunchy it scratches my back.  I am grateful there is a spot behind the building with green lawn and a pine tree with a base that’s fat and round.  I go there instead to breathe and feel the green.  The sun is already behind the foothills and that  California is what I do get, what at least I know I need if not want.   Night after night of final nod to the light.  Night after night of thanks.

There is so much a heart can hold, and so much it often forgets.

The body remembers though.  If you let it, it reminds you, it will let you know.

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