Note 4

It's a dry place, my place of birth. So the rain at the airport when I landed was unexpected. But it seemed right. This land is, after all, a part of me, and I a part of it, I guess. When I look out of the small airplane window and see it streaked with rain as we taxi to our gate, I imagine sorrow, pain, memories not easily forgotten, a thousand memories too quickly remembered, Springs and Summers and silence, and I am not really surprised even in this dry place.