The dry, in a matter of days, has been replaced by torrential rain. It’s finally cool, but entire towns are now inundated with water. Tornados and strong winds lasting several days are knocking over trees, disrupting power lines and tearing at old houses, stripping them of their corrugated iron roofs. At home, there are candles lighting each room, burning down to the wick. I heat dinner on the gas stove, and wait for the electricity to be restored. Outside in the wind and rain, the backyard is flooded, my wattle tree bent so far over that it’s touching the ground. I play music on the radio as the world blacks out, disappearing into streets of dark, wet cars. There is just the occasional flash of an emergency light from a passing truck, and the melancholy of old songs, turning the night into a swamp of remembrance. My heart is exhausted, battered with stress. The contents of the refrigerator begin to expire.