Bamboleo

Thick, persistent drops batter my windshield, leaving behind a canvas of transparent craters that rivals the moon's shiny surface. Each crater is a separate portal into the outside world, the world outside the dry comfort of my car. Fading autumn leaves and dry pine needles coat the slick driveway as I race toward home. My wipers make feeble attempts to clear the crystal craters, but the steady drizzle of chilling droplets refuses to let up. I rush from my car into my apartment. I take no pleasure in the dampness that curls up my bare legs and clutches at my hands. Once inside I warm up some leftovers and sit down to eat above the warmth of my heater. As I shove mouthfuls of artificial chicken and fried rice into my mouth, my food-frenzied cat looks on.

My eyes wander. I take in the stark contrast of the white plastic Christmas tree at my back and the orange leaves in the yard. The drab gray sky and the brown grass make me long for a sunny afternoon in my favorite tree in Honduras.

It is raining and there is no parade, but if there were, I would be dry.

Friday I will be in Honduras. Maybe I will enjoy the afternoon in my favorite tree.