Letters from Grenada

Emily came at night. She began with a timpani of thunder. At first, I survey from the corner of my verandah, until the blowing rain chases me indoors. I listen to her pummel my neighbor’s steel roof, as if taking a mallet to a steel drum, whaling on it like a wicked auntie with a switch.

In the bedroom I hide, the saturated air breaking in through the porthole of a crack I just had to leave in the window. The drenched air is fresh and briny like the ocean. It smells like wet flowers, and inexplicably I think of damp bumblebee wings. As the wind rises, I press my hands against the glass and it breathes, shallow gasps against my skin. My reptile brain tells me it’s dangerous to shut the window. Polyester lace curtains of pale aquatic green flap angrily against the wall.

I am tired. I stretch out on my back, my head on the pillow. I am near the window. I relax, focusing inward, unclenching my jaw, spilling my hair over my pillow, smoothing my fingertips across my aching temples. I lace my hands over my stomach. I sleep.

In the morning Lyndon makes local sweet tea that tastes like a bakery smells. If you don’t listen to the words, his speech sounds like French, his verbal rhythm Gallic. His skin is dark caramel, his eyes are inky-lashed, giraffe-like, and his raven hair is greased into smooth waves and ponytailed. His neck smells like smoky cocoa butter. He catches me watching him and grins, feline.

The early morning air is cool, but we know that soon the merciless sun will burn away the mist, scorching the wet from the green. How many words are there for green? I don’t know nearly enough of them. The flora is shiny, newly washed. We meet no major devastation. Emily is not like Ivan.

We must check North Star and the rest of the boat yard. The walk is long and muddy, sliding and halting. It’s quiet. There are few vehicles on the road. Above, the sun blazes. Below my feet, there are tributaries coursing through the silt, branching and unbranching like arteries and veins. A mammoth dragonfly is drowned, wings glistening like soap bubbles made flesh. I see dead frogs like old balloons. Foliage is strewn like we’re an elven bridal party. At first the day is sweet like honeysuckle soaked in sugar cane.

By late morning the air has turned to molasses. We swim through it. I am a sticky bun in clothes. The breeze is long dead. The mosquitoes stage war games and the sand flies revel in our sweat. Were I fast asleep, the itching would wake me.

Much later, after dark, I perch in my usual corner of the verandah. Grenadian sunsets are normally stunning like religious visions, I well know by now. Worn from the day but content, I gaze at the symphony in the sky. My senses flood with color, raw egg-yolk yellow, new lava red. I have lived a hurricane.

Posted on January 27th, 2009 under Grenada • Tags: backstory, caribbean, emily, expat, Grenada, hurricane, ivan, living abroad, living in Grenada, memoir, tropical weather. •  Print This Post •  Email This Post • RSS 2.0 feed • Leave a response, or trackback