It always rains in this city.

Back south our dog is molting.
We burrow under the blanket made by your grandmother–
the one with your name and birthday woven in front:
thick, cocoon-like,
made on those backstrap looms
that could sit two Ilocanas.
You wanted it in violet.
Your lola made it in blue
for you were a boy, after all,
and not some sissy.

A few months ago, in April,
we marveled at the fire trees that bloomed too early
(for do they not usually flower in May?)
and we decided to call them: “show offs.”

It is troubling how the days, weeks, and months
seem to disappear into each other.
A few months ago it was summer,
now it’s July,
pretty soon it’s Christmas.

But today, time stops.
Everything grinds to a halt
in this room where we live under a blue sheet–
not tired,
not hungry,
not sad,
not worried,
not going anywhere.

Just here.

Now.