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clouds
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clouds AUGUST 6, 2018SNAKEOILFORTHEMEDICALSOUL EDIT clouds I look at the sky, at a bank of clouds grey and menacing and see a whorl off to the side twisting in the freshening breeze, dancing and spinning to the side and instantly my mind goes back to over 30 yrs when I see a a similar whorl of cloud in the distance roiling in the wind and coming nearer. It was in Bangladesh that I saw it, and always accompanying the cloud is the rain falling in solid sheets, sometimes blowing vertically to blind you with its fury. What once was a bright, hot sunny day instantly becomes as pitch black as a cold night, as the massive clouds blot out the sun and the oppresive dark is broken only by the near constant flash of lightning. We seem to have forgotten much in our lives, but the one thing I remember clearly are the rain and the storms of my childhood, whether they are the seasonal monsoons of my homeland or the sudden, furious typhoons in the countries I sojourned in. From pitch black night to crystal clear dazzling day with the world newly washed and sparkling, to drumming drops on the window with the warmth of a body close by. I sometimes wonder whether the climate is a worm hole to the past that we forget frequently and only remember on sudden whimsies. And always before the rain would be the wind and after the rain, would be the wind again, sighing between the treetops. There would a little breath at first like the first in drawing of breath a lover makes, followed by stronger gusts and then rain, thunder and lightning and after all that, the steady breath of the wind before the stillness after the storm as the world recovers and shakes itself like a newly washed animal. I remember rain falling on my grandmother’s thatched room dripping down the coconut fronds, I remember water flowing from gutters into kettles and pots that we would use to collect it and then splashing in widening puddles before working their way to the swollen stream gurgling to the side of my grandma’s house. That stream is gone now, and my grandma’s thatched and plaster house in now a modern, concrete box. My grandma is gone too, too soon but fondly remembered. I remember walking home from the bus stop soaking wet with the water dripping in my eyes and me, at the tender age of 10 or 11, cursing the weather and why we came home to this miserable country and then arriving at our flat. my mother telling me to get out of my wet clothes and take a shower, as if I wasn’t wet enough already. Then sitting down to a steaming bowl of soup and the warmth slowly inching its way back into my body and thinking -“hey this isn’t so bad”. I remember the continuous rumble of thunder and the searing brightness of lighting in our house and my scrambling into my room afraid to sleep and we would cuddle together listening to the fury of the storm, the uncaring wind and the occasional splatter of water against the windows reminding us of our place in the world, in the bigger scheme of things. Now I walk by myself on this hot day and gaze at the clouds. At their patterns at once so strange and then eerily familiar. How we know each other so well and how I’m glad to see them. That they will be constant reminders of the path I have walked and the worm hole windows to the past and that eventually, sooner or later, I will be part of them. |
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