The Place We’re In

The sky was milky white again in early morning. A sign that the day will be a hot one, my sister said. It’s been like that for a few days now. A thorough heat wave cooked us all, humans and plants and animals under a cloudless sky and in 35 degrees Celsius in the shade. Yes, shade has been a mere joke you could say.

The kids run in with a tailless baby lizard they found in the garden. A very small creature indeed, light and delicate, with beady little eyes that sparkle. “It clings onto your finger when you hold it,” the boys say.

I know this lizard commotion, it happened two years ago too and I was afraid we might miss seeing the babies this year if they hatch too late. Until now we only saw adult ones, and every experienced lizard chaser knows they are so fast it’s impossible to catch them even for a bit to look at them. Plus, my niece says, they bite. It figures…

We are about to leave my sister’s family place, a house in the middle of field invaded by crickets at night and dotted with colorful shy wildflowers all year round. The boys got to roam free to their hearts’ content and bedtime was moved into some wee hours every now and then, because time with cousins is that precious.

Late mornings found us in my sister’s wild garden. The big people having coffee and chatting about the many things that make us skip a beat, laughing and walking down one too many memory lanes, while the little ones chased lizards and played games with no rules that sometimes ended in tears. So be it, life is like that when you help yourself to big gulps.

My sister garden is a magic place. That’s where I picked Calendula flowers for my sister’s soaps, that’s where we picked ripe cucumbers and tomatoes off the vine, and where we shared many life stories that made our eyes grow big but so did our hearts. To be grateful is a must.

Later in the day, gray clouds piled up over the hills and a beautiful storm took over. From up here on the hill the city looks charming, no matter the time of day or weather conditions. Early morning stitch the contour of the houses and distant churches in a thin white foggy coat, while daytime heat paints them all yellow brown with no desire to sparkle or stand out. Every night cricket choirs serenade the distant orange lights that dot the town streets.

Night comes, the cricket choirs begin seeding the night with thousands of chirps and now the air is pleasantly cool. We step outside to have a glass of wine. The countless roses my sister planted in the flower garden, plus our beloved childhood flower that only becomes fragrant at night, Nicotiana alata or Jasmin tobacco, which we always called “queen of the night” as children, they are all here. Our words and laughing of this and that land softly on them like night creatures that need to be.

A shooting star slides down the night sky. Perfect timing. Thank you.