MICHAEL, Yuma, March 2017:

Michael loved to sit under the terrace roof, where he could be both inside and outside at the same time. He especially loved doing this when it rained, which was rare in Arizona—always a special occasion.

He would watch the raindrops as they fell, hitting the ground and forming pools of different sizes. He loved to trace the patterns they made, each drop merging with another, creating ever-changing shapes. Sometimes, the rain was so heavy that it looked like ropes falling from the sky, as if the sky itself was unraveling into long silver threads.

Michael tried to count the raindrops, but there were too many. They were endless, shifting, impossible to track. He had tried before, but it was like trying to count the bubbles in a soda—always disappearing before he could finish.

And then, there was the smell.

He loved the smell of rain. It was as if it cleared the air, giving everything a fresh, clean scent. The air was cool and damp, and he liked that, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. He didn’t need to understand it. He just knew that he liked it. Something about that smell reminded him of a feeling that he often had when he was walking with his mom or dad, sitting safely in his special stroller, looking out under the world just as he was now. This was a feeling he wanted to last forever

Maybe one day, when he was older, he would think about why—perhaps he would realize it was because of the contrast to Arizona’s usual dry heat. Those kinds of rationalizations lay way into the future if they have a king. Right now, he was just a boy watching the rain, and at that moment, his ways were like those of any other child.

*

94-29032025

*

Cover Photo by Vitolda Klein on Unsplash