For months it has been nothing but dust, a blanket of it clings to the surface of everything. All that was green hides under the brown, so that the landscape just looks thirsty and dull. How fitting that I am reading 'Grapes of Wrath,' the roads up to our aldea are our very own dust bowl. Returning home, the Belmont bus engulfed in clouds; the dust enters and bathes the people, covers the seats and fills every nook and cranny. Grit where the tongue meets the teeth. I wear a false tan on my arms and ankles that is so stubborn, that no amount of scrubbing is sufficient.
The rain is coming, but each sneak-preview downpour acts like a tease. In the orchards the peaches are getting fuller and in the fields the milpa (corn) grows in eager growth spurts after even the briefest downfall.
Waking this morning to a sound like the blasting of an unkinked hose hitting the roof of the house; buckets and buckets of water fell and I fell into another blissful hour of sleep. The best sound for sleep on earth.
Delia's baby was born by cesarean. Her experience in the hospital was bad and she was gravely mistreated; one of the doctors shoved his knee into her belly, called her a bitch and told her to have her baby so he could go home and sleep. It makes me sad to say that I wasn't shocked to hear this. She is recovering well and now is home with baby Daisy and her sweet family. I will be sad when our post-natal visits in Rosario end this week.
And now we wait...three births to come, any day now.
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