The girls are worshiping the dehumidifier like a false idol. They hug it, talk to it, turn its knobs and squeal with delight when it starts. Its love. I tried to explain the weirdness of this to some friends and fam, most of them New Englanders, but the humor was lost. Dehumidifiers don’t translate.
I get it. I remember hosing myself down with lotion in the dead of winter, how the air would crack like desert sand. How I used to cuss like a sailor every time I touched a door knob and enough electricity to power the Vegas strip pulsed through my body. Oh I remember.
But it seems worlds away. Here the air is moist and heavy as the fruits that fall at your feet. Our little machine is a trooper, it pulls oceans out of the jungle air. It keeps the mold at bay and the baby girls asleep. Dry nights and moist days. No lotions or chapstick or coats. Bare, soft little legs in the grass, falling and standing and climbing over, under a sun that shines 12 hours strong. In the dead of winter.
One day we will have to leave this jungle, and I wonder if the babies will remember this place. Will they wish for it, cry for it, or forget places like this even exist? Will they love the seasons? Throw up the leaves, jump on my bed and yell “snow day!!” Or will they pine for endless sun and flowers all year round? I don’t know, but I have to think… most likely they’ll forget.
Someday this jungle may be nothing more than an exotic place on their birth certificates, a distant memory, a delicious smell they can’t quite recall. But at heart, they’ll always be the jungletwins, little monkeys that swing from vines, eating papaya and watching volcanoes bubble and smoke in the distance. And I’ll remember for them.