This year has been a strange year, profoundly strange, one of those that seem heavier than all the others combined.
For weeks we lived under a still sky, as if the sun, cruel and watchful, had decided to fix its gaze upon us to observe our despair. An infernal heat took hold of the days, suffocating, relentless. It tore away our spirits and revealed the worst in us, as if exhaling our frustration and cursing the thick air could offer us some relief, even if only illusory.
For the first time in a long while, I was afraid. It was not a common fear, but an ancestral one—the fear of emptiness, of absence, of the possibility that the rains might never return. I imagined already living in a dry and barren world, a wasteland of dust where all that was green had turned to memory. I believed there would be no redemption, neither for me nor for any of us, but I also thought—selfishly, after all—that my suffering was unique, that I carried a weight on my shoulders that no one else could understand.
Then, I prayed. Can you believe it? I, who have always mocked superstition, creeds, and prayers. There I was, on my knees, silently begging the mute sky, as if the voice of a broken man, a heretic like me, could pierce the heavens and summon the mercy of a storm. But the sun did not listen. Each day was a replica of the last: the dry and searing air, the dull gazes of those around me, the endless nights where sleep was a fleeting luxury, like a breeze that never arrives.
And just when I thought hope had run out and that cruel fate would be our only companion, it happened. At first, it was but a few timid drops, as if they hesitated to touch the earth. Then, a roar from the horizon, a gust of wind filled with promises, and finally, the storm.
What fury! It was as if the sky itself had decided to take revenge for our despair, to return to us all the weight of our prayers. The rains fell with such force that I thought the earth would crack in two. But in that violence, there was life. The dust faded away, the earth exhaled in relief, and within days, the paths were green once more. The air, now fresh and laden with moisture, was a balm for the senses. The birds returned with their songs, the crickets rose in a nocturnal symphony, and the trees… the trees seemed to raise their branches to the sky in a gesture of gratitude.
And then you came, like a storm in the midst of my drought.
I too, began to bloom.
Violent, unexpected, overwhelming.
I did not know what to do with the intensity of your presence, with the chaos you brought into my life. But with you, came the freshness, the life, the renewal. Your laughter was the rain soaking my dry skin; your voice, the river that quenched my thirst. I felt something within me overflow, how the sorrow, accumulated over the years, slipped through my cracks, leaving me light, renewed.
Have you ever smelled the fragrance that rises when the earth is moistened after a long drought? They call it petrichor, and they say its essence comes from the blood of the gods spilled upon the stones. How poetic, right? But I wonder: what fragrance do the gods leave when they walk among mortals? Because what you leave in the air can be nothing other than divine. What is this essence of yours that has spilled over me? It is something deeper, something inexplicable, something that resists me yet invades me at the same time, something I cannot name, but long to explore.
Since you arrived, I have begun to see the world with new eyes. The days are no longer a punishment; even the nights have a new light, as if the moon itself knows I am with you. And yet, I wonder: how is it possible that a storm can bring so much peace? How can someone, with all their force and fury, become a refuge?
Perhaps I will never find the words to describe what you mean to me, but there is one thing I do know: you are my rain, my storm, my salvation. And I, like the earth after the drought, can do nothing but bloom.
I hope that together, we will discover what we are. What new paths this water, now flowing through us, will carve. I hope, with all the humility of one who has known drought and the gratitude of one who has been saved by the rain, that this storm of ours never ceases.
With all the emotion of one who has returned to life,
Always yours.
