by Rose Metting
The thing about the sun is that it’s always right there. Even when it’s not it’s still hotter by double digits of degrees from where you are from. It’s dark then, at night and such. But you don’t stop sweating here.
You buy a reflective umbrella and fall asleep after lunch every single day, with the buzz the ceiling fan makes at the 30 second mark to keep you company. The best days are those when you wake up to the curtains billowing like mad – flapping then tumescent then flapping again – and the rains are coming. You are still sweating around your waist where the sarong cinches, but the billowing is good. You splash water on your face and get up once more.
Where are you when there is nothing but sun? Time is fruit seasons that drift in and out and the tube of toothpaste that curls up with use on the bathroom sink. Time is the stray cat that is pregnant again after the first ones died and swelled. It is more mold in the closet and more motorbike boys who have memorized your evening jogging route.
The thing about the sun is that it coaxes seeds to unfurl and Circadian rhythms to hum. It keeps that one foot in front of the other, even when it’s easier not to.
Here the sun is brutal. Here the sun sears your flesh in a matter of minutes and etches wrinkles you are too young for.
It doesn’t stop, and neither do you. It tans your hide, this sun.