A Dry Season

I watch the news and I see pictures of home, where it is not beautiful and the day is not a gift. I have to confess that I feel a little weird for loving the day so much. Home, you see, is Dallas. The last news footage I saw from the area was bleached and dry, all the water sucked out of the air and the earth.

I think of the azaleas along Turtle Creek, so lovely in the springtime; I think of the rose gardens at Samuell Park, so fragrant practically all year 'round. I think of the soft green grass of Flagpole Hill. I think of these places dried up and blown away in a strong, hot wind.

Dad sends news articles about the drought sometimes, prefaced with "be glad you're not there." I think of 1980, when we had a similar drought. It wasn't so hard to live through. Everybody's lawn died, and if your air conditioning gave out it took weeks to find a repairman who could come fix it. The next year, the weather went back to normal, and we all felt better.

It is harder to watch from afar, to see the place you grew up grow old and pale. Not being there, it is easy to close my eyes and conjure up a nightmare of the relentless sun shining off the huge glass downtown buildings, burning up everything in sight.

I cannot dream of the rainstorms that will soak the gray back to black. There, on the ground, they can dream of the scent of water from the sky.

They are the lucky ones.

before - after