When
I was a kid,
I'd wake up in the summer and
run to the window
(the way some children ran to their windows in winter)
to see whether it had rained the night before.
And when it had,
the grass was wet
and the air tasted thick
and it was everything I ever hoped for.
When it rained at night, I'd stay up for hours
just lying there, listening to the rain.
A rainstorm
would be my salvation.
So I listen now to the rain,
and I hope it rains often in Zihuatanejo.
I've come so far
and yet, not far enough.
Tomorrow, I'll be worlds away from
where I've spent my life,
thundering toward my home.
Farewell, Maine.
See you soon, Red.