aiyah, quick lei..

It was that time of the day when the sky is a musty grey, sandwiched between 6 and 7 in the evening. When you wish you could poke your head out of that muskiness to get some air. But it was not like that that night.

It was after school.

My mother, with my florescent plastic lined ninja turtle square shaped backpack slug over her right shoulder, holding an umbrella in her left. And me, with my cheek against her forearm,snuggling close. I feel the wetness of her sleeve and I smell the rain.
There is wind. It threatens to blow the umbrella inside out. I snuggle closer.

We reach the sheltered bustop and it's such an accomplishment. We did it, mom and I, we made it through the windy path that lead through the park.

She takes the umbrella down and folds it up. We are waiting for the 317 bus.

I remember looking up at her. Short, tiny me. i am looking up and she is tall.

"Aiyah, quick lei,'' she says. It is soft, almost a hum.

The wind tugs at her hair, raindrops on the pavement. They splash on my canvas shoes soaking them producing a squishy sounds with every step. I am getting a little bit wet, but for the first time she does not care. We're walking back instead.