What am I saying? It’s not just an arrival, it’s a sweet welcome home celebration! You’re finally here! Our prodigal precipitation has returned at last! Bring robes and rings! Kill the fatted calf and let’s feast! For tonight it rained!

Far down the road we could see you coming. Oh yes, I had my suspicions when the humidity reached 80% this morning. Then the overcast skies, a dead giveaway. Plus, it’s all in the name: M-A-N-G-O rains. I’ve been enjoying about a mango a day, so I guess you just knew it was time.

Good to see you, old friend. Six months is far too long to be apart.

Right now watching your fresh drops dust off cars and trees and my dog, I can’t help but reflect on our extended absence from each other. In October I was in denial about your departure, December distracted me with its chilly 60-degree temps, and by March I was so consumed with sheer heat that dreaming of your return only made it worse. I forgot what you sound like pounding on the metal porch, your smell that covers the African stink, and how it feels to play with you “like a slippery wet toy” as my 6th grader Cole once wrote.

Inevitably all of this reminds me of AMERICA and how today’s reunion is one giant metaphor for all that awaits me in June. The mental list of Stuff I Miss has shrunk over the past 2 years. So much of it I’ve simply forgotten. The feel of carpet, driving, greasy Sonic, life sans mosquitoes, English, cushioned church pews, bookstores, Oreos and milk.

Thinking of those familiar images leads me to ask, When I finally return home and America wraps me in her arms, spins me around, and says to begin the feasting because what once was lost is now found, will I grab a fork and dig in? Or will I scan the table and realize that it’s not so appetizing anymore. What used to cause insatiable hunger is now unsatisfying? Will I discover my true thirsts are camel rides in the desert, afternoon tea, crossing the Niger each morning, and of course mango rains?

I’ll be expected to slide right back into my culture, just like I expect you to hang around for a while longer. But you understand, mango rains, because that’s not what you do. It’s your nature to come only once or twice before rainy season begins in June; you don’t belong here right now. You are just passing through to offer what you can—relief from the heat, nourishment for the ground, and a delightful afternoon of play. You won’t come back until next April when the mangoes are ripe. Then from across the ocean, I’ll think of you for the first time, all over again.

Soaking it in while I can,
Amber