He stands, leans on his cane, and gazes at the water that used to be so blue. And when he’s not on a beach, he’s on a bus on the way to a beach. From 63rd to Fargo Avenue, he covers the city. He’s that old man who walks the beaches, day and night, wobbling across the sand with his cane. Moral of the story: We take water and rain for granted in the Midwest, while in the Southwest it is a luxury that many can only dream of. The fireworks confirmed he was there smiling back. So the rain continued, and I smiled as I looked up into the sky hoping he was somewhere up there. Nonetheless, it was raining and that’s all that mattered because I knew my grandpa would be happy if he were there… sitting in the spot where his tree once was. Not even his tree was there, just bare sand. The rows of chili peppers and vegetables were no longer there. As I looked into his garden, the prickly pears around the perimeter were gone. I made my way to my Grandfather Simon’s garden, where he would patiently wait under the shade of his only tree, wishing for the rain to fall from the sky, but never did. I was amazed to see the raindrops on my windshield, as the smell of the wet, desert land overwhelmed my lungs with joy. It attached like a kite to the spoiler of my car and decided to reveal itself at dusk on the 4th of July, 2014 as I arrived into town. This comes from one of our listeners Mario Alberto Lucero Ruiz:Ī raincloud from Chicago followed me all the way to a little ranch in Anthony, New Mexico.