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Miri would smile, her dark eyes crinkling. “Spring,” she’d say, “is a European word. Here, we have six seasons. But for you? I’ll teach you the months the way the wind does.”
“January, if you love the sound of rain on a tin roof. July, if you want to see the Milky Way. November, if you are brave. But never ask an Australian which month is best,” she added, winking. “We will argue for hours.”
“This is when the sky turns fat and heavy,” Miri said. In December, the mangoes swelled. By January, the air was so thick you could drink it. February brought cyclones with names like Ada and Marcus, and the rivers ate the roads. Children swam in flooded paddocks. Tourists complained about humidity; Miri’s people sang for the rain.
