The desert isn’t kind to its inhabitants. The summers are scorching. The winter night is freezing. The dust clings to the back of your throat when your lungs ask for too much. But, it’s the rain that always scared me the most.
It warns you days in advance. The dark clouds roll over the northern mountains, carrying with them a threat of rain. The smell of creosote blankets the valley as the rain inches closer and closer. Thunder and lightning trumpet the arrival of the storm.
The rain in my head isn’t gentle. Any attempts to curl up at the window with a hot mug and good book will be interrupted by a trashcan loudly tumbling down the street and possibly into the side of your car. Or the windows bowing, threatening to break.
We don’t have rain in Arizona; we have monsoon season. From July to September, we are sent into an unwinnable cycle. A series of sweltering breaks and terrifying bursts. Of the sun scorching your toes and then a downpour of rain that shakes the walls. These storms last for about half an hour at a time, yet are responsible for 50% of the rain we get. They bring with them clouds of dust and buckets of hailstones.
I hated the rain as a kid. I hated the rain as a teenager. I would still say I hate the Arizona rain now. Yet, there is a moment when the first storm of the season arrives, and everyone stops. Not to fear the wall enclosing their backyard collapsing into their neighbors’, but to watch the water fall. Everyone steps onto their porch or balcony with a sense of gratitude. The storm finally came. The heat has finally been broken. My sisters would run down the street barefoot and hollering. Arms thrown out, welcoming the storm. I would watch from the covered porch.
We would all wake up tomorrow to one day of perfect weather before the heat returned. The fallen trees and branches would be gathered and thrown away. The lost creek would be found until it vanished again. And I would collect the worms off the sidewalks before they dried to the ground.
