Every June, the sky lowers itself like a letter being slid under a door. We wait for it the way we wait for news we are afraid to open.

The first rain is always theatrical. It throws itself against the windows, drums on the roof, demands to be noticed. By August it has settled into a quieter grammar.

I write my best letters during monsoons. Something about the gray light makes honesty easier. The envelopes seal themselves with humidity.