Humidity

It is there

or it is not.

When it is,

my nostalgia is triggered,

and I am transported

to dusty brick homes, 

on dirt roads

with the thick scent

occupying my soul. 

No matter where I am:

DC, San Cristóbal, NY, Ixtepec,

Miami, Playa del Carmen, Poptún,

when the humidity reaches

my nostrils,

I am again in Tepic, Nayarit.

Memories of moist sunrise, waking to

neighbors in my Tia’s living room tiendita,

“¡Quiero!” they’d shout.

I’d turn in the damp sheets.

Muffled voices in the kitchen,

the clinging of dishes, and the fan’s soft

breeze, ease me into the waking hours. 

Soon, the neighbors are sweeping their

slice of the sidewalk,

men are loading up their Nacho Libre tricycles,

with merchandise,

my uncle paces back and forth near my bed,

judging my lazy yanqui-ass, for still being asleep,

at 7am. 

As the humid day continues,

and the unforgiving, scorching summer sun,

shines angrily on our walk, along uneven sidewalks

and stone road,

the human mass on the bus,

radiates, moisture. 

Pasamos vendedores de gelatinas,

elotes, pepinos.

Nos vamos a la neveria, a comprar bolas de limón o de fresa. 

Cuando comienza la lluvia veranal,

nos subimos en un taxi,

las ventanas, medias abiertas,

nubladas por la humedad.

La humedad, simplemente

pertenece a un rincón de mi memoria,

que se enlace con otro mundo, otra civilización,

otra realidad, otra epoca.

And I’m not talking about damp.

I’m not talking about Seattle, or San Sebastian,

or San Francisco. I’m talking about tropical humidity. 

When it is not humid,

I am in L.A., or somewhere in California,

or Madrid, or London, or Tel Aviv. 

My feet are on the ground.  I’m on the topside world.

I am working, or mothering, or speaking,

doing some kind of hustling. 

This morning,

I was lakeside.

The sun rising,

the mist crawling across the water,

the humidity, cradling my heart,

re-membering my connection,

to the earth, to humans doing their work,

with their own hands, to people caring for

their patch of the sidewalk,

to small treats, like a cut up cucumber,

or a corn on the cob, or handmade ice cream.

And my soul

was home.