The rains would come heavy each afternoon in this hot tropical land—mostly—without fail. And those who had—even just a bit more than the other—would place their barrels under the edge of their zinc corrugated roof—or maybe just one hastily placed sheet—to catch a slice of heaven from the dark sky above. Day in and day out, the water would eventually fall. Consistent and reliable, fresh and even cold, it would fall with that familiar taste—one we would never waste, and honor with full grace.
One day my dear friend sent her daughter to find me. She was calling for me to come and transcend—just a bit—under the shade of her tired fruit tree that stood stoically at the side of her earthen-made hut. And there we sat, my friend and I, side by side with our glasses brimming of freshly squeezed lime—rich with precious tartness and sweetness all at the same time. It filled me up with unexpected joy—like the one that comes when putting your face toward a cool breeze that appears out of nowhere on a very hot and sun-filled day.
Yes there we sat, my friend and I, under the shade of her tired fruit tree—far, far away from urbanity. We sat with our simple joy, creating a memory we could savor once more—wherever we would find ourselves in this great big mystical world.