Albuquerque Rainstorm

Welcome old friend

Your presence in my life has been constant

A long aching gust of wind with the biting mists against my face

The angry jagged bolts of electricity painting the skies of home

or wherever I would be

The incessant tip-tap-tap of the rain

The scent that surprises none

You harbor discontent

or hope.


I am sitting in a wet dress, not two feet from the second storm since my arrival here. I could smell the rain before it hit me, and yet I chose to remain outside long after it had begun. The crisp cold of the raindrops was surprising yesterday, but not so today. How the desert rain can be as cold as the rain I remember from the Midwest is beyond me. The heat of the day runs from it, and the temperature drops all around me. I recall the rain being warmer in the Midwest, but the weather was still this damp quick cold. I have not felt this type of rain for ten months now.

I have been unable to share my relationship with the rain with those I know out here. They don’t know what it is like to smell the rain before it comes. They don’t know the terror of the downpour for longer than a few moments, and you can always outrun the rain. Here, the rain looks like I remember – coming so fast and hard with the wind that it creates little wisps of white, not unlike cigarette smoke, and brings them back in toward me, where I sit in the garage, wetting my naked legs and reminding me that I am sitting a little too close for comfort.

I can’t tell them how being too close for comfort is comfortable.

How would I feel if I hadn’t had the scent and embrace of the rain to accompany me through many stages of my life – the sad warm nights when I could hear nothing else over the sound of my own tears, the days of boredom, when I had homework to do, but wanted to sit and ponder the rain for hours, questioning whether it would stop before I could finish recording my thoughts, and what would I then do with an unfinished piece of me? Even the days when I finally lived on my own, and had to deal with the rain flooding my street, so I could not do anything other than busy myself in my home, and watch the new river in my neighborhood float by.

The scent coming back to me time after time, bringing all the memories of me, and who I was each time I knew it was about to storm.

How would I be?


Talk at me while I eat

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