Do you know I still remember you? We met in passing: you were one amongst the thousand flurried marvels of those days, I the rare pilgrim on your desert road. Only the dust and hills, the shrubs and sun witnessed the encounter. Maybe only they can tell who approached whom.
I am moving to Chile when it is our autumn and their spring. I hope to learn how Chileans feel about rain. Do they despise it for the mud it brings, the wet shoes it leaves in the hall? Or do they go out to the sidewalks and gutters and beaches to revel in the miracle? Will someone join me in dancing bachata in the rain?