How can I describe a moment and make it seem like the story that it was?
It was raining. I remember that. It is important to understand desert rain to understand the moment I was in.
Most people don’t know the smell of the desert in the rain. They cannot imagine how the smell itself is full of life. Most people imagine the desert as barren. As if the cacti are there amidst the dirt and rocks and dust. A single, dull yellow tumbleweed rolls past, dodging between the stately, perfect, two-armed saguaro.
Most people don’t realize that even the tumbleweeds were green when they were alive. Most people don’t realize that saguaro were once small and armless. Each towering cacti is like a fingerprint, different in its own way and leaving its unique print on the desert. Most people have never seen the white and yellow blossoms of the desert in spring and summer. Most people have never tasted the sweet, red fruit that pops in your mouth.
So, most people have no idea how alive the desert feels in the rain.
And the hot summer rain fell. I was soaked, but it meant nothing to me. I was perched upon my rock. Of course it wasn’t actually my rock, but a rock that I had claimed to watch the rain fall over the foothills below me. The rock was smoothly jagged. I don’t know if it is proper to describe a rock as soft, but it was a soft rock, especially in the rain.
I have experienced rain outside the desert, but it never fills me with the same sense of peace that the desert rain does. It never feels alive to me. It never feels fresh. The smell is never brisk and tangy on my tongue. I cannot abide by the moldy smell of rain; it fills me with the feeling of death. Where desert rain is filled with life, the rain elsewhere always feels pregnant with the feeling of dying.
But, there I was, perched on my rock, enjoying this summer rain. The sky was dark, but not filled with lightning as so many desert storms are. It was a fresh and heavy rain. A rain that lasts only minutes, but soaks the ground so completely that small streams form, winding their way down the mountain between the rocks and pebbles and brush and cacti.
That is how long this story lasts, minutes, the minutes of that summer, desert rain.
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I cannot recall how old I was, but I was old enough to be on my own for the majority of the time, but not yet old enough to venture beyond the confines of the foothills where I lived. In those in between years where you think you are grown, but still have so much more to learn and experience. Those in between years where you are still comfortable with who you are and still feel peace with where you are going in the world.
As was my habit, I was out in the foothills beyond the view of my house. There were ruins of an old settler house that had long since crumbled to the ground, leaving only the chimney and the remains of a wall. From that ruin atop the hill, I could still see my house. I had wandered past that, down the canyon and up the next hill. It was from there that I explored the desert.
The saguaros were ripe with fruit and as was my habit, I found an old rib to knock a fruit down off the top of the towering plant. As was also my habit, I pluck a hair from my head in thanks for the fruit the tree provided. I do not know where I picked up the habit, but I did. Every time I picked those juicy fruit from their lofty perch, I plucked a hair from my head and let it blow away from me on the wind. Perhaps somewhere in my head, I saw the similarity between my hair on my head and the fruit atop the towering giant. Either way, it was something I did. I wanted to leave a bit of me with the desert as I took something from it.
So, I slowly and carefully peeled the fruit. It was something I did with practice to avoid the furry thorns. The fruit was ripe and juicy and the flavor poured into my mouth and down my chin as I bit into it. It had not started raining yet and I was simply one of the desert creatures walking about the desert.
I could smell the rain on the air. The sharp, metallic prick in my nostrils gave away the oncoming storm. Despite this, I did not venture home as any wise adult would have done. I suppose that is one of the advantages of being at that in between age, you don’t have to be wise.
I walked upward on the hill with no real destination or purpose. I walked simply to walk. To explore, though I do not know what I was exploring because I had walked that hill many times before. Perhaps I walked to learn not about where I was going, but to learn about where I would go.
Then, the rain started. It fell on me as desert rain does, all at once: a blanket of rain falling from the sky. It washed the sticky juice from my fingers and from my chin in an instant, soaking my clothes to my skin. And then I saw the rock. it was a plain rock and I decided that it would be the place where I would watch the storm and be a part of the storm.
In the distance, from the rock, I could see the sun peeking through the clouds. Beams of bright color strained their way through the deep grey blanket of the sky beyond the falling water. But, here, I was in the rain. The sound of rain filled me. The smell of rain consumed me. The taste of rain embraced me. As it covered me, I became a part of the desert. I became another creature perched on a rock.
The rain fell darkly, dripping into my eyes. I struggled to see through my hair and through the water. Closing my eyes for a moment, I fell into darkness. My other senses coming alive. I could breathe in the life around me and expel the life from within me as I exhaled. Everything around me was breathing. My heart throbbed in time with the sound of rain on the ground. The sheets fell rhythmically, similar to the sound of waves on the shore, but deeper.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw them -
The two white wolves that would later become more familiar.
It was the first time I had seen them so close. Through the rain, we stared at each other. If I had been either older or younger, I might have felt panic and fear. But, I was at ease. I was in my element and so, we stared at each other. I do not know how two white wolves found their way into the desert. I suspect they were chased out of their pack for being different. Wolves are creatures who like to blend in, such an aberration would not be tolerated within their ranks.
The wolves did not move toward me and I did not move toward them. We simply stared at each other and acknowledged each other. Perhaps we all understood that we were the different ones. Perhaps we knew that we were the ones chased out. Or maybe, we had both left by choice.
In that moment we were all creatures of the desert with no reason to prey upon each other.
The wolves nodded at me and I nodded back through the rain with our eyes locked, but not in contest. I remember being struck by the fact that we had the same color eyes: not quite green, but not all honey brown either. Perhaps, if we had understood each other more, we would have held a conversation. Perhaps, if we had been able to speak, we would have disappeared into the desert together to be consumed by the rain.
And then, the rain stopped.
And I was alone in the desert again, perched upon my rock, the smell of life filling me.
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