The rain here is warm--the temperature I prefer for my showers back home (Here my showers are a glass of ice water). I stand in the rain here--no reason not to. My clothes drip all day. The only difference between what pours from gray clouds and what pours from glands in my skin is the smell.
I can't supress giggles as I run back from dinner to my bed above the hospital. The water sloshes mud off my ankles and I don't have any mascera drips to worry about. I feel five-years old, dripping, splashing, and slipping. There are no goosebumps because I'm not cold.
Haiti's weather mirrors me. The morning thickness reflects dreams that evaporate from my brain and eyes as my feet tap pavement to jogging rhythm. Water drops slide down bannana leaves and splash my scalp, reminding me that I am pouring out of myself. Not a bad kind of pouring; it's like when you pour the contents of an opaque bottle into a glass to figure out what's inside. I'm trickling my components into Limbe, Haiti to find out what I look like inside.
I see a sporadic burst when I agreed to race 4 Haitian boys over mud and rocks down a limbe mountain road and came in second; pediatric tears and a sock stuffing my throat when the hospital director exposed a miscommunication to me; a smile sliding across my cheeks before I can identify the source of my elation.
