In the dry season, drops drift down
In the wet season, water pours from the sky
all day and all night
Or so my mother tells me.
My first memory of her, my own true image,
bestowed by no one: Gazing up at her
in the rain.
The light was particular,
as is common
through relentless rays of sun.
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.
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.
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,