I Forgot What it Felt Like

Today in Texas, thousands panic, cars pull over to the side of the road, children run shrieking mad through the streets in their underwear as something that could be describes as "wetness" falls from the sky.
The cracked earth coughing dust through a hoarse throat hisses as the first drops hit, long-dead grass, brittle as glass and sharp as cinder, sucks in the moisture as I wonder if it's too far gone to come back.
It's been months, months of a hostile sun at full intensity with no rain, no rain, no rain.  By day, a pitiful cloud or two would appear every once in a while to create the illusion of shade for a moment, and it was even worse when night fell and it was still hot enough to sweat through your shirt.  In essence, Texas has been an electric stove coil for the summer, with a cruel god manning the controls.  Each day turned the burner on High heat, until the coil glowed an angry molten orange, and at night, with just a slight turn of the dial to the left--click--the burner was turned off just long enough to turn dark for a moment, but not long enough to be safe to the touch.  Then dawn came--click--and with a slight turn to the right, it was on High again.  Every day, I have been doing the summer blacktop-pavement dance on that coil, lifting my feet gingerly with each step and wishing somewhere there was some son-of-a-bitch responsible for this for me to give a piece of my mind to.  But there isn't, not a single one anyway, so I cursed the sun and Texas instead.
As I drink my coffee and regard this storm, a driving rain ricochets at a 45 degree angle off the street, a lightning bolt snaps down from somewhere high in the sky and booms like a felled tree, a stiff wind jars the chime next to me so hard it almost hits me in the head, and I remember what rain feels like.  I remember cool nights and green grass, things alive and lush, hooded sweatshirts that smell of bonfires and morning dew, and for a moment I'm homesick for Michigan.
The rain has stopped and everything is still brown, dead, and dusty, only now it is wet brown dead dust.  The wildfires still burn.  It's going to take a lot more than this, a monsoon, for things to be green again.  The moisture will all evaporate by evening, and I dread the approaching humidity--I can already feel the air sticking like a viscous goo.
But it's a start.  Maybe there will be more rain to come, less heat, greener times where days reminds me of  life.  The sun is out now, and I'm trying to look on the bright side.