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The unexpected pleasure I feel at seeing the gentle rainfall this morning fills me with surprise and with it comes a renewed sense of well-being. It seems as if the birds rejoice too and provide a mini concert for me as I sit beside the open window listening, the drip and gurgle of water a perfect backdrop to the natural music emanating from the garden. There is the occasional swish and slush of car tyres on the road and even that sound is sweet to my ears.

Missy is downstairs ensconced in her new fleece lined bed and is showing signs of returning to her old sweet self after a bout of mastitis. Thank goodness for the power of antibiotics. She is happy enough with an extra blanket wrapped around her with just the lampshade visible around her tiny cute head. When I kneel beside her she makes little grunting sounds almost as if she is attempting to talk.

I should be out really battling my way around the grocery store, buying the necessities to fill the pantry, pushing a cart groaning with all the things we tell ourselves we cannot live without. But I hesitate. I persuade myself that there is no need to hurry even though I know  well that as the day passes, traffic will increase and with it the mass of mankind will be out in full swing. The coffee in the white china cup beside me turns cold, yet I drain the contents in one swig. The taste is bitter and tang in my mouth and oddly welcome. My feet are bare and in need of socks yet I choose not to wear them.

My son got out of bed this morning. He smiled and ate his cereal, showered, dressed, put his bag, heavy with books, on his back and went to school. He did not forget to kiss me on his way out. Is he sitting beside a window too? Is he looking out at the rain? I remember. We practised his French lesson last night for his exam today. Animals. He said to me, Mom, you say the animal in French and I will write it down; cochon, cheval, poussin, and on until he said, got is and put away his books. He will be fourteen next week. That makes it fourteen years in this house. When he was ten days old I got on a plane in El Paso and put him snug to my breast. He never made a sound on that journey, he never complained at the sitting around in airports, the changing of planes that took him to this world, the only one he has ever known. He has never been back to the place where he was born. He often asks me to tell him stories about it. I say; well there was a scorpion on the wall near your bassinet the night before we left to come here. It had stolen its way in through the air conditioning vent. I remember feeling sick and scared when I saw how close it was to you because you were so small then, so vulnerable. I picked you up and didn't put you down until we came to live here. And what else, he asks of me. Well, I tell him, it hardly ever rained in the desert, but when it did, it poured.

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Oh, boy. . .I just read a

Oh, boy. . .I just read a really interesting article about the El Paso/Ciudad Juarez dynamic, but I've already thrown it away. I think your son might've liked it.

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No doubt he would Ellen. I

No doubt he would Ellen. I am sure he will return some day. He is quite pleased to be called after Zane Grey!