I’m proud to share that The Pavilion, a literary magazine for expats and former expats, has published my essay “Water is Everywhere.”
There was a smell in the air, when it would flood. Like damp rags, or a slightly moldy basement. It wasn’t quite a stench. We stood in our gazebo and watched the rain pour, its mist rising above the sharp aloe plants. The barrels were overflowing, water pooling at their bases. The mango tree bent in the wind, and afterward we crossed the yard barefoot to collect the mangoes that had fallen. They were so soaked they crushed into mush in our hands. We walked around to the back of the house where our maid lived to see if she could use the soggy mangoes for something. Our feet were slick with mud up to our ankles, and our mother made us wash off with the hose before we could come in the house.