The desert hates the rain. In the desert, there are no gentle, soft rainy afternoons, where nothing suits better than sitting in the window and reading and watching the blessing of the clouds. The desert conspires to make the constantly needed rain as unpleasant as possible, crying “Turn not your face from my blistering, baking love!” In the desert, the approach of clouds is heralded by whipping winds and a steadily increasing oppressive heat – in a land where all cooling comes from artificially raising the humidity, impending water cancels out any hope of being cool.
When the clouds finally arrive, if the heat relents far enough to allow the raindrops to reach the ground, the wind blows without ceasing, tossing branches, debris, and dust in the air. The rain bands together in huge droplets, so that their mass can hold them together long enough against the parched air that they might impact heavily on the surface. Otherwise, they spend their molecules in the atmosphere, high above the needy soil. The wind makes sure that in the moments before the water evaporates, dust turns it to mud, for a lasting reminder.
I only vaguely remember what a real rain is like, as in a dream, or from too many movies. Then and there, the rain fell like a benediction, like a friend. Late at night, I would sit on my window ledge, my feet hanging out in the air, and sing to the rain. It brought the world in close without suffocating, warm without overheating, and cool without chilling. In my memory, rain is all things pure and honest and simple.
Here, I open the window a crack, filling the room with the desert’s impotent anger, and press my face to the glass with longing. I want to be outside, not in these harsh, bitter rainfalls, but in the open-ended rainy afternoons of my youth.
You can never go back.
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Beautiful.