Oscar Wilde wrote, “Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.”

There is truth in that, especially when it comes to childhood memories. 

I write this from our home in the Puerto Rico mountains on a very rainy day. My mind, or more accurately, my heart, has been transported to El Pao and the many afternoons during the rainy season (May through November, inclusive) when the rains would fall incessantly for hours. There was something peaceful about it all. At least for me. 

I remember on occasion sitting on the floor or the ground out back, under the roof whose shelter extended beyond the porch and listening either to the pitter patter on the roof or the gentle sound of the water dropping on the innumerable leaves of the giant mango trees.

Poet I never was, nevertheless, more than once I’d think in my child’s mind that I would look back on such days and remember them fondly. 

And, lo, I do remember them. With love.