The hot sun drops
Its blood red tongue
Across a powder blue sky
For four weeks, I missed Chicago’s summer tongue, the sunshine, the gaiety of warm days and long bicycle rides along a lake that seems as big as an ocean. Instead, I was working halfway around the world in two locations as different from each other as my culture is from theirs. In both places I was subject to high, high humidity and rains that felt incessant ensuring my parade trudged along soaking wet, ankle-deep in stagnant waters, my sweat feeling rank.
I am a child preferring dry sun and moistureless air where sweat evaporates before it is felt upon the skin. Those lands where the sun’s rays turn my flesh blood red because they pierce my flesh with thousands of minute spikes needles scraping my pink flesh raw until the pain is so intense I slather my body with cold, white cream and lie abreast a box fan on high crying all night long for the pain to subside.