It rained here last night. Finally. In our little corner of the Valley of the Sun, the radar was wrong, the weatherman stunned, and a thunderous storm went out of its way to make us feel important.
The morning before, it rained at my friend, Deborah’s house, twenty miles away from us. She was on the phone with her sister on the east coast when the first drop splatted.
“I didn’t know what it was,” she told me later.
Only in Arizona do we forget what rain sounds like.
Last night’s storm made sure we didn’t confuse it with fireworks or car engines. Usually when I realize moisture is landing close by, I quickly run outside to breathe in its sweet, fleeting fragrance, eyes straining to make out the evaporating evidence on the ground. Why they didn’t name this Sonoran desert The Kalahari instead, I’ll never know.
But last night I had just settled in under the covers when lightning outlined the window in our bedroom and thunder bellowed its bass “hello.” It was a surprise visit and I was delighted. Suddenly, a chaotic tap dance beat a rhythm on the glass as rain and hail competed for my attention.
Gleeful as a child, I cozied down deeper in the bedding and let the summer symphony lull me to sleep.
Rain is a gift to desert dwellers, and when it comes wrapped in the darkness of evening, my favorite place to enjoy it is from the private box seat of our master suite.
From rainfall to curtain call, the show is complete with its own applause, then tiptoes away as I softly slumber. Sweet relief. Sweet reprieve.
Photo courtesy of samantha celera's photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/13408740@N00/2226758824