In the Wild North of Brazil, It Rains

In the dry season, drops drift down
every afternoon.
In the wet season, water pours from the sky
all day and all night
for weeks.

Or so my mother tells me.

My first memory of her, my own true image,
bestowed by no one: Gazing up at her
nude
outside
in the rain.

The light was particular,
as is common
to recollections:
Beads sparkled
through relentless rays of sun.

She shimmered.

I told her of it once, and as is common
to both dreams and memories,
the magic evaporated
to be replaced
by the words I spoke.

She shared
that when we lived in the wild North of Brazil,
the faucets often failed.
We collected rain in buckets
and bathed in the downspout of the backyard.

Eventually, we returned from our ex-pat existence.
This version of my mother (or this version of us)
evaporated, like my memory.

Except
once in a while
I catch a flash in the eccentric
clothes she chooses,
in a particular piece of advice,
in the stories she tells:

In the wild North of Brazil,
it rains
every day.