It is Very Lost, Sir

Windows smudged with nightfall.

I lie in the dark listening to thunder roll around like a worm working its way through the sky. The hard rains only occasionally remind me of the rainy season in Kenya. There, rain falling on the metal roof would make listening to music or watching TV impossible. When the rain would stop, flying termites would rise out of the ground by the millions and slip with ease into the house. They would cover all the lights and terrorize those of us unused to cohabitating with that many insects all at once. After the spotting the first invader, someone would yell “TERMITES!” We would all scream and rush around to douse lights and cover our heads and bodies with blankets. In the morning, the termites would be crawling around the floor everywhere, having lost their wings in the night. The good news is that they are quite harmless and even better, edible. Raw or thrown into a hot fry pan, one could dine on a smokey treat.

I suppose it is to be expected that I am gradually forgetting the names and places I thought would be permanently seared into my pores. The security guard at the library tries to speak Swahili with me, but so very little of it finds its way out of the catacombs of my brain. The best I can do is tell him “imepoteza sana, bwana” - it is very lost, sir.

It has been twelve years since we fled but honestly, it was a lifetime ago. Her green tea winds and red dust still blow through the doors of my heart, only now, more faintly. I won't return until my ashes are loosed upon the Maasai Mara, but it's okay to let go. Life is a sea, roiling and singing her song on every new tide. Be present to what is gifted and all will be well.

It is well.