Wandering around Boracay, kicking stones and stomping in puddles. Look up at the sky... here comes the rain.
There's nothing like tropical rain in the Philippines. Torrential. It pours down so heavy it seems to rise from the earth.
Out in the street people wrap themselves in plastic and brace for waves. Scooters honk, delivery trucks beep. Power lines sizzle above like wet eels.
There's nothing to do but take shelter under the eaves. Smile at the old woman without any teeth. Buy a papaya split in two by a machete on a tree stump table, and wait.
Thatched roof sags and leaks. Puddles widen. Rats come out of the gutter holes and yawn.
We all wait for the rain to stop pouring, for the blue sky to return.
The man at the banana stand has a transistor radio full of static and muffled straw. He grins as a Burt Bacharach song comes on. I know these old songs by heart. So does he.
We stand there laughing, listening to old songs that can barely be heard, while the world, lost in memory, waits out the rain.