“Rain,” my father shouted, during a previously quiet nightly walk. Then a surprising phenomenon fell from the sky. Opaque mist covered all our stars. I witnessed this rare sight of abundance. Then tiny blobs of water released from the mist and traveled to the sand. One by one they coated the dunes forming a heavier surface. The ground beneath my feet had always been dry, but the heavens changed the atmosphere. My hand shoveled a small amount and the sand clumped together. Slowly, a few others gathered and immediately began holding up containers towards the mist, my father among them. I expressed to my father that the mist is wasting water by pouring it on the sand, expecting him to punish the mist. My father laughed at my statement and explained that these ‘clouds’ follow different rules than me.

Now, it is 7 years later, no cloud in sight. The ground remains light and shiftable. Our wells dry quickly. My father protects our stores of liquid from the giant flame that scorches our land from above. Our village remains closed off from the sky. My hands keep off the sand, and my eyes never witness water mixing with sand. We still barter with merchants for large containers of water, and no one announces that word “Rain.”