They sent us a typhoon for Christmas. It comes wrapped in rain, with wind as ribbons. But it has not arrived yet. The supply chain cannot be to blame, only climate change. There has not been a December typhoon since the 1970s, according to the papers. I huddle up at home listening to the first rain drops hit my air-conditioning unit and think about what I saw this morning:
As I make my way down the hill, there is a father ahead of me walking hand-in-hand with a little girl wearing red reindeer antlers. A dog leads the way. It is a black dog that looks like it just stepped out of a hieroglyphic. The little girl sings one of those quiet songs that kids make up as they go along, the ones sung self-consciously to themselves as if at any moment someone will turn around and scold them for not knowing the words, the ones the adults ignore as they try not to recall singing about princesses or being trapped in a dungeon hoping for a rescue or something equally ridiculous as they themselves once sung when they were that age.
The hieroglyphic dog stops along the side of the road for a shit in the grass just off the path right at the edge of the hill. “Maya has to poo,” the father says to the girl. She stops singing. “Shall we watch?” The girl nods, transfixed. It’s suddenly very quiet. The helper, who has been trailing behind this whole time, stands there awkwardly. A human afterthought. I wonder if she is waiting to see whether he will pick it up or leave it for her. “Everyone has to poo,” the father whispers. Good thing not all at once, I say to myself as I pass them. There’s enough shit to go round in the world as it is.
As I approach the village, breakfast on my mind, I think that it must have been my dad who taught me the same important lesson I just witnessed.