SEPTEMBER |
News of the fires and floods keep pouring in. Down south, a city lies half-submerged underwater, and up north dozens of houses burn down. If you close your eyes, you can almost smell the smoke, you can almost see it unfurl its slate-colored cape over the countryside. How fragile we are. How easily we burn or drown, require heat but not smoke, require water but not so much that it swamps our homes. Here it’s so hot that I can’t touch the steering wheel without potholders. We are all waiting to go up in smoke. No, we are waiting for the rainfall we dream of to drown us, defenseless and terrified and alive. |