It's a quiet morning on Saigon Bay. Ray is gone to class and the sky is dark with rain clouds. Both kids are silent, heads bent over math books, and discordantly enough, I'm working on Medicare chart reviews of patients back home in Colorado, searching for diagnoses of kidney damage, atherosclerosis, heart failure. I can hear roosters crowing in the village, someone using a hammer, and, faintly, a radio playing Central American pop music. I think this is the longest I've been aware of complete silence from my children; I'm impressed by their attention spans.
Jaime, the maintenance man from the village, comes by to fix the sink that has been leaking. While he's here, he fixes a window shutter too. The kids finish their math and move on to writing. Suddenly the rain starts, a million drops breaking the surface of the bay and making a sizzling sound. I can look down at the ocean through the floorboards of the kitchen, the centimeter wide gaps between the floorboards which make sweeping the floor very easy.
The rainwater collection tank behind the house is filling up and ensuring someone's bath tonight. The trail to the main road will be muddy when we head in to Spanish school, though. Three days of class and my brain is buzzing already with medical terms: se la hincha una pierna, me arden los ojos, que se mejore pronto. So much to learn. The kids are working on fruits, days of the week, and a song about a turtle so far to learn body parts.
Love to all as the rain continues. xoxo
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