The rains have begun to fall and I’ve cleaned house with all memories of dry, sunny days. Goodbye to old loves and hello to new flames.
It’s doubtful that they ever knew how inside of you trickled a tiny stream of phrases promising without delivery an action that never arrived. It’s dubious that they ever imagined that the tiny rivulet would become secret floodwaters within you that one day would drown out all ideas pertaining to them as the surge broke down the wooden posts only half-blocking their phrases from the machines within your head that processed the wood into truth. Little did they all know that within you were compartmentalizations of them that became a burden too heavy to hear by the cabinets inside of you that held their weight. Shocked will they be when the contents fall to the floor and the flood eroded the wooden structure of the homes they built within you with your permission. Fortunate will you be when all that is broken is washed away leaving you with a clean slate to build your own walls.
We build homes in places that we know will not last and then become shocked at the notion that the water will rise in and bloat everything within its walls. We build, knowing that the soil is easily prone to erosion, but we still believe that it will outlast any natural disaster. Yet, our homes come tumbling down as we struggle to hold it together with temporary fixes.
Still, we continue to build all the while ignoring the warnings nature throws at our faces as it tells us that the structure will not hold. We work diligently and keep insurance because somewhere within us we know the tragedy that will inevitably strike. Foolishly, we forget that insurance is never a solution to a problem that will cost more to us than the claim is valued for. We will eventually lose that house that we desperately wanted to raise. Maybe then we will realize that the cost of building on inhabitable land was too high for our optimistic minds.
The mangos are ripe for falling off the trees—their beautiful range of coloration is from deep purple to green, then yellow, then ripe red. They’re comrades of the salty wind blowing through the long, pointed green leaves. That same wind wafts the scent of salt and pulpy sweetness begging for you to sink your teeth into it. Now the wind has brought forth the scent of sour oranges, lemony and citrus-like, yet sweet. The sour oranges lie in waiting for full maturity; they have almost met their goal as they prepare for their descent from its branches. The avocados wait, unready to meet the standards of maturity. They have much yet to grow. In September, their fragility will be its all-encompassing factor as our meals become laden with the soft feel of cool avocado pieces. The guavas are also ready, their flowers in full bloom as its fruit screams to be picked lest it rot on the branch and fall. The combination of fruits and moist salty air is refreshing to bones that saw winter for much too long in the plains of Iowan fields. Florida is a heaven on Earth waiting to bring forth all of its produce. My home is finally becoming familiar to me once again with every sway of the palm fronds reminding me of the sound of waves of a warm and clear blue beach.
We don’t need to reach up to the trees, their fruits will fall. We just need to stoop low as we bow in gratitude for the fruits of their labor. Colorful butterflies should be thanked as well, for filling up the scene with their random beauty. I will bow as frequently as I should until the sky stops mirroring the color of the ocean, the mangoes, the butterflies, the sour oranges, and the baby avocadoes. The sun will be the color of strawberries when the sun makes its last descent into the trees and sea. My body feels airy, as if it were preparing to fly alongside the butterflies frequenting my small little piece of heaven. Just wait until the jasmine blooms and the coconuts begin to fall. The orchids have already graced us with their satiny presence.